Himmler's War

CHAPTER 3

Heinrich Himmler had always been a loyal supporter of Adolf Hitler. He had joined the Nazi party in its early days and had worshipped. The Fuhrer had given the former fertilizer salesman and chicken farmer’s life a sense of meaning. Himmler had flourished as head of the SS and the Gestapo and now he was one of the most important men in the Nazi hierarchy.

But Adolf Hitler was dead and there was much for Himmler to do if he wished to live to a ripe old age in a Nazi cult that didn’t mind killing off rivals. First, the Fuhrer’s legacy must be sustained, even improved on, despite the difficult times ahead, and that called for strong leadership. Hermann Goering was not capable of such strength. The First World War fighter ace and one-time confidante of Hitler was in virtual disgrace as a result of his incompetence as commander of the Luftwaffe, his ineptitude as an administrator, and his looting of museums to provide art work for his disgusting and decadent pleasure palace at Carinhall. Goering was addicted to drugs and alcohol, further impairing his limited abilities. Still, the obese fool considered himself a major participant in the Reich and the heir to Hitler.

Himmler had sent SS troops to Carinhall ostensibly to protect Goering from a possible coup. Instead, they’d taken him prisoner and had him sent to a small private hospital outside Berlin where he was under heavy guard. Goering, of course, was too far gone in a narcotic fog to realize what was happening to him. He would stay in the hospital and in a drugged stupor until a decision was made regarding his future.

Martin Bormann, Hitler’s secretary and party chancellor, held power only while Hitler lived. Himmler had taken steps to isolate Bormann. He was held in protective custody by another SS detachment. Himmler was exacting sweet revenge against the man who’d plotted against him and tried to humiliate him in front of Adolf Hitler. Sadly for Bormann, Bormann had forgotten that while he had great influence with Hitler, it was Heinrich Himmler who had a private army.

As further security, Himmler had brought in one of his favorites, SS General Sepp Dietrich, who had raced to Berlin with several thousand SS soldiers. Berlin was secure. Whether Hitler’s death was an accident of war or an assassination from within, no one but he would take advantage of the situation.

His secretary tapped on his door and informed him that Field Marshal von Rundstedt and Foreign Secretary Joachim von Ribbentrop were ready. Himmler preferred small meetings. Large groups, in particular during these uncertain times, drew attention and could lead to panic among the people.

The field marshal and the diplomat seated themselves and stared at Himmler with differing degrees of expectation and deference. Von Rundstedt was an aristocrat, while Ribbentrop presumed to be one. Like most aristocrats they looked down on Himmler and ignored the fact that Himmler’s godfather had been the prince of Bavaria, a fact that was important only to Himmler.

Himmler began. “Gentlemen, let me begin with the obvious. Our beloved Fuhrer has been brutally murdered by an American-British-Jewish conspiracy. Steps are being taken to track down and destroy the perpetrators and they will succeed. Several diplomats and even some generals are involved and will be dealt with severely. However, we have a tremendous duty ahead of us. We must win the war.”

Rundstedt nodded. “It is also an opportunity.”

“How so?”

Himmler could see the older man choosing his words with care. Hitler might be dead but it was still dangerous, possibly even fatal, to criticize him. Many generals, Rundstedt included, had been critical in the past. Rundstedt had criticized Hitler openly, mocking him as a “Little Corporal” in reference to Hitler’s First World War rank, but had carefully not crossed the line into treason.

Rundstedt smiled slightly. “Hitler is dead; thus, we will no longer have his brilliant intuition and inspiration to guide and inspire us. Instead, we must depend on our more pedestrian intellects to get us through the growing crises.”

Well said, Himmler thought, even if it was a bald-faced lie. “I am aware that the professional military disagreed with the Fuhrer on many occasions,” Himmler responded, “but had always acquiesced in the end. And look what it got us-France, Poland, and much of the Soviet Union.”

Rundstedt laughed harshly, more confident that his comments hadn’t been rebuffed. “It got us lands that the Soviets and the Americans are rapidly taking back from us. If we are not careful and if we do not act quickly, the Third Reich will become a footnote in history, and we will all be dead or prisoners.”

Himmler flinched, but he could not disagree. It was exactly what was preying on his mind and the field marshal was correct. On the other hand, Ribbentrop’s face showed shock.

“Then what should we do, Field Marshal?” Himmler asked. “How can we attain victory?”

“It may depend on how you define victory, Reichsfuhrer. If you mean forcing Russia, the United States, and Britain to the surrender table, such is not likely. If you define victory as the survival of Germany, the Nazi Party, and we here, then yes, that definition of victory is attainable. However, in order to do that, I am afraid that we will have to take some steps that are repugnant and even go against what our late Fuhrer has directed.”

Ribbentrop, attempting to be the diplomat, regained control of himself and kept his face expressionless. This was what Himmler expected. “Go on,” Himmler said.

“In order to defend Germany, I need men and supplies. It is that simple. Right now, many tens of thousands of trained German soldiers are languishing away, far from the field of battle because the Fuhrer declined to give up any ground we’d taken, especially against the Soviets. I suggest that the circumstances have changed and that we must act with decisiveness and haste while there is still time. Our scattered armies must be retrieved and our extended defensive lines shortened.”

Finally Ribbentrop spoke. “You would have us give up our conquered territories?”

“Quite frankly, yes.”

“Other than that, do you have a plan?” Himmler asked.

“In theory and development, yes. However, I am not ready to divulge it without input from Speer.”

Himmler concurred. The young Albert Speer was the Minister for Armaments and Munitions. The capabilities and limitations of the economy were paramount to their plans. “He will attend here tomorrow.”

“And what about me?” Ribbentrop asked, almost plaintively.

“With Hitler dead,” Himmler said, “you might find it easier to negotiate with our enemies. Sound them out. See who really wants this war to end and what their true terms are.”

In Himmler’s opinion, Ribbentrop was useless and his attempts to bring peace would prove futile. He’d failed miserably as a negotiator in the past, often insulting those with whom he was supposed to be negotiating. Would anyone ever forget the time the man greeted the king of England with the Nazi salute? And in London no less. He’d become the laughingstock of England and the diplomatic community. For the time being, however, Ribbentrop was the best he had.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt looked up from his stamp collection and smiled genially. “Well, is the fucking little paper hanger dead or not?”

Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General George Catlett Marshall, no longer winced at his President’s obscenities. He sometimes wondered whether FDR swore to be one of the boys, or to aggravate his senior general, or because that was just the way he talked. Marshall thought the latter. Many people had canonized the President as the perfect man, but the truth was that he was a cripple who couldn’t walk a step, and a man who drank and swore. And womanized. Jokesters in the know laughed about his womanizing and some wondered who wouldn’t stray if a cold and stern Eleanor Roosevelt was all he had to come home to?

“Sadly, sir, we aren’t sure what his condition is,” Marshall said. “The Germans have admitted that he’s badly wounded, although they’re saying he’s recovering. They’re also saying it was nothing more than as a despicable assassination attempt and a Jewish-American conspiracy. They are again cracking down on dissidents, although I wonder how many are left after all these years. Whoever they are, I feel sorry for them.”

“And what do you think, General?”

“I think he’s dead.”

Roosevelt leaned over the desk in the Oval Office and stared through his glasses at the array of brightly colored stamps, some of which were quite rare. “And why?”

“A very ambitious Heinrich Himmler is in charge and several of those associated with Hitler have, well, disappeared from the scene and perhaps forever. I believe Himmler and Goebbels are setting the stage for an announcement of Hitler’s heroic demise, after which, Himmler will be proclaimed the new Fuhrer.”

“And if Hitler really is dead, how will that affect the war?” Roosevelt asked.

Marshall was surprised. “I believe that’s your call, sir.”

“Indeed,” FDR said softly. “I am afraid there will be pressures from many quarters to work with the new German government to end the war. If nothing else, so that we can focus on destroying the little yellow bastards who bombed Pearl Harbor.”

Marshall nodded. Many senior military men, including Admiral Ernie King and General Douglas MacArthur, felt that America’s war efforts should have been focused on the despicable Japs and not Germany. Many in Congress, particularly those from western states, also wanted America’s focus on defeating Japan. Instead, Roosevelt had insisted on adherence to pre-war plans that called for defeating Germany first while containing Japanese aggression. Allied plans also called for Germany’s unconditional surrender and, if Hitler was indeed dead, would that affect it?

“Enough speculating over that,” Roosevelt said. “Now, what about this Phips person. A medal or what?”

“A medal at least, but I suggest waiting until Hitler’s death is confirmed.”

“And Ultra says nothing?”

Marshall instinctively looked around. Ultra was the name of the super-secret British code-reading activity at Bletchley Park in England. The Germans were unaware that England had broken their most secret and sacred codes and were now sharing the information, albeit reluctantly, with their American cousins. Very few Americans were in on the secret, and most key members of Roosevelt’s staff were unaware of it. They were also unaware of what was being developed in New Mexico under the name of the Manhattan Project.

FDR sighed. “And this Phips person is such a nebbish, a fucking clerk. Why couldn’t it have been the copilot who’d been in charge? He looks a helluva lot more heroic than Phips.”

Marshall permitted himself a small smile. “That might work in our favor. The German supermen would be humiliated to find that Hitler’d been killed by a scrawny little nothing like Phips.”

Roosevelt chuckled. “Perhaps it might. At any rate, do something about the plane. Mother’s Milk, my ass. That name and the caricature have got to go. The tits on that farm girl are larger than several states and are an insult to every woman voter.”

“Roy Levin’s my name and yes I’m Jewish, why would you even ask?”

Morgan grinned. “I didn’t ask and you don’t look Jewish.”

Captain Roy Levin was short and stocky, and had an olive complexion topped by short curly hair. He looked more Sicilian than anything else. Morgan decided he was an easy man to like. Levin sat on the bunk opposite Morgan’s in their four-man tent.

“Welcome to Stockade Stoddard’s rolling armored circus. And by the way, don’t let the colonel ever hear you refer to him by that name. He knows we all do, but not to his face. Could be fatal. You might bleed to death after getting your ass chewed.”

“Understood, but how did he get the name?”

Levin sat on his bunk and lit a cigarette. Jack declined his offer. “The good colonel’s regimental headquarters was overrun by the Germans in North Africa and he was nearly captured at a lovely place called the Kasserine Pass. His battalion was out of touch for several days until relief columns arrived, and he sincerely believes that a lot of his men died because his regiment’s HQ was gone. He decided then and there that his HQ would always be fortified. Thus, he moves men and equipment around and sets up with each new move. Kind of like the Roman legions did. And, yes, that’s your job now.”

“Wonderful.”

“To give Stoddard his due, the man is neither a coward nor stupid, just cautious. He’s got legitimate medals from North Africa and he’s also a decent guy as long as you don’t piss him off, like screwing up the defenses around his HQ for instance. He’s also one of the handful of guys in the 74th who’s actually been in combat. Even though we’ve been in Normandy for a couple of days, there’s been no real fighting for us. Some shelling and sniping, but nothing major.”

“I’ll do my best to keep him happy. Now, you’re supposed to tell me about the regiment.”

Levin pulled a bottle of wine from his duffle bag, opened it, and poured some into their canteen cups. “Crystal would be better,” he said after taking a swallow, “it enhances the bouquet, but beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, the wine ain’t all that good. One of my men got it from some guys in the First Infantry Division who liberated a bar or something.”

Levin explained that there were three thousand men in the 74th, clustered around the seventy tanks that made up its strike force. He added that the regiment was an independent unit, currently assigned to General Leonard Gerow’s V Corps, which was part of Courtney Hodges’ First Army. “All of which belongs to Omar Bradley’s Twenty-First Army Group,” he added.

“If you’re curious, and there’s no reason you should be, there are other independent armored regiments and even a slew of independent armored battalions floating around. As to our strength, we have fifty M4 Shermans and twenty Stuarts. The Stuarts are light tanks and aren’t worth a shit. Worse, all they’ve got is a piddly 37mm gun which won’t hurt a Panzer Mark IV or a Panther. Might scrape its paint, but that’s all. They’re supposed to be phased out this winter and replaced by something called a Chaffee which also isn’t worth squat against kraut armor. The Sherman is bigger than the Stuart, but isn’t much better.”

Levin went on to explain that the Sherman had a 75mm gun and could beat the Panzer Mark III with its 37mm gun and hold its own with the Panzer Mark IV and its 75mm gun, but the introduction of the Panzer V, the Panther, and the less numerous Tiger and King Tiger varieties had disrupted all that.

“The Panzer III is still around and the Germans’ main tank is the Panzer IV, which is what the Sherman was allegedly designed to fight. The Panther has come as a terrible and unpleasant surprise that we’ve so far been able to avoid. It can’t last, however.”

Jack took another sip of the wine. “What’s the difference between a Panzer and a Panther?”

“Contrary to popular belief among the willfully ignorant, Panzer is not German for Panther. Panzer is derived from something else, maybe a French term. Technically speaking, the Panther is the Panzer V. Others, like the Tiger, which actually is the Panzer VI, the King Tiger, and the Leopard are different breeds of cat.” He chortled, “Damn, I am witty.”

“Not really,” Jack said, “but you are confusing the hell out of me. However, please continue.”

“Screw you too,” Levin said amiably, clearly pleased with his lousy joke. “Simply put, the seventy-five millimeter gun on the Sherman can’t penetrate the Panther’s front armor and the Panther’s gun goes through a Sherman’s thinner armor like a hot knife through butter. Since we haven’t seen any real combat it hasn’t happened to us yet, but I’ve been told that, statistically, one Panther can knock out as much as a dozen Shermans before ultimately taking a damaging hit and a Tiger can do even better, which I hope is an exaggeration. The only saving virtue is that the krauts don’t have all that many Panthers or Tigers.”

“How the hell did it happen that we got the crappy tanks and the Germans the good ones?” Jack asked. “We make millions of great cars, so why not tanks?”

Levin shrugged and added some more wine. “Ask the politicians and the manufacturers who convinced the army that the Germans wouldn’t be leap-frogging ahead of us with their designs. I’ve also heard that the Pentagon wanted the Sherman kept small so more of them could be shipped overseas without taking up precious space in ships. Oh yeah, it’s got too high a silhouette so the krauts can see us long before we see them. There was also the idea that tanks wouldn’t be fighting other tanks. Instead, tank destroyers would kill the German tanks while Shermans aided the infantry. That hasn’t worked out that way either. Another perfectly good plan shot to hell.”

Levin took a swallow and grimaced. The wine truly was pretty bad, but it was alcohol and they were beginning to feel comfortable. Levin continued, “And along with the tanks, there are a number of semi-armored half-tracks and a dozen M10 tank destroyers, which are also under-gunned against the Germans and don’t have any tops on them in order to save weight, which is supposed to increase speed. Dumb.

“We have our own artillery, consisting of a number of 105mm howitzers on open tank chassis. We also have a large number of trucks, gas tanker trucks, and Jeeps, but it’s common knowledge that we don’t have enough of them.”

Jack added more wine to his cup. “What a fuckup.”

Levin laughed. “Yeah, and we’re supposed to be winning this war.”

Colonel Ernst Varner was well on his way home when the sirens began to wail. He felt his stomach churn as he moved quickly to the nearest bomb shelter in the basement of an office building. It was the middle of the day and that meant it was the Americans who were going to rain destruction down on Berlin. Again, just as they did almost every day. The British bombed at night.

Varner was as brave as the next man, but he felt helpless as he cowered in the shelter. He could only wonder as he did each time-what the devil had happened to Germany’s air defenses? Where were the fighters? Why weren’t German bombers hitting enemy airfields? When the war started, Hermann Goering had boasted that if an Allied bomb fell on Berlin he would change his name to Meyer, a Jewish name. Well, the bombs fell constantly now on a relatively helpless Berlin and the disgraced Goering rarely made an appearance. To the people of Berlin he was a buffoon. Varner agreed, although only to himself.

The crump-crump of the bombs could be heard. Some nearby area was getting pasted. Varner could only hope and pray the bombs weren’t falling anywhere near the apartment building where Magda and Margarete awaited his return.

The bombs were falling closer. The shelter began to vibrate and dust filtered down onto the scores of people who huddled in terror. People were moaning and a woman screamed. Children cried. Varner fought the urge to piss. A direct hit on the building above could bury them alive. No matter how many times he’d been in combat, there was always that feeling of unreasonable fear when the firing began. Show me someone without fear, he’d always thought, and I’ll show you either a fool or a lunatic.

Like a thunderstorm in the summer, the bombs reached a violent and ear-shattering crescendo. The walls of the shelter shook with their violence, and still more dust fell from the ceiling, covering everyone jammed inside. Varner smelled smoke and prayed that the exit wasn’t blocked by flames or falling debris. He’d seen instances where that had happened and the people inside were fried to a crisp, their bodies stacked by a blocked exit.

The woman screamed again, yelling for the bombing to stop and then cursing Hitler and Goering for letting it happen. Someone stifled her and prevented her from crying out again. Varner could understand her fear and frustration, but not her outburst. While the Gestapo might not be everywhere, the Gestapo’s informants were, and such hysterical comments could be construed as treasonous.

As the dust settled, he saw the woman, now standing alone. Nobody wanted to be associated with her. She was wide-eyed and terrified, but now from a new sense of panic.

The sounds of bombing faded. But were the Americans through or was this just the first of many waves of attackers? The Yanks seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of planes. Berlin wasn’t totally helpless as hundreds, perhaps thousands, of antiaircraft guns fired at the distant bombers. They would hit some of them, but nowhere near enough to change matters. The British would come tonight and the Americans again tomorrow during the day. And so it would go on.

The all clear sounded and Varner led the group out of the shelter into a changed world. Walls were down and buildings were on fire. Choking black smoke filled the air and torn bodies lay in the street. Ambulances and fire engines were trying valiantly to stem the tide of blood, fire, and damage. He looked for the screaming woman, but she was nowhere to be seen. A policeman with a bandage on his face walked up to him.

“Excuse me, Colonel, but do you know anything about a woman saying treasonous things while in the shelter?”

Well, Varner thought, that didn’t take long. “I heard a hysterical woman howling, but that was all. I really couldn’t make out what she was saying. I was really more concerned about two children who were crying nearby.”

“Do you think you could recognize her?”

“No.”

The policeman nodded knowingly. “Nor can anybody else. What a surprise.”

“Officer, I really don’t think a terrified woman’s outbursts qualify as treason, even if she said them.”

“Nor do I, Colonel, nor do I,” the policeman said and walked away.

A child began screaming. Varner and others went to where a boy was pinned by debris. They pulled him out but not before his eyes rolled back and he lost consciousness. A quick check showed he was still breathing. The boy was about ten and his left arm was smashed and would doubtless have to be amputated.

A medic appeared beside Varner. “At least this one won’t have to go in your army, Colonel.”

“Careful,” Varner snapped.

“Of what?” the medic retorted. “Sooner or later we’ll all be dead and you know it, Colonel.”

Varner found he could not respond. He left the medic and began the long walk back to his apartment.

Morgan sat in the front passenger seat of his Jeep and pondered. It was just like any other traffic jam except he was on a hedgerow-lined dirt road in northern France, and he had an M3 “grease gun” across his lap. He’d chosen that weapon because others recommended it. The M3 fired full automatic, and was smaller than the M1 Garand. Size was a factor for tankers since room inside one was at a premium. He hadn’t had a chance to fire it yet, so he felt just a little foolish carrying it. He also had a. 45 automatic in a holster on his belt. He’d never fired that either. Nor had he yet been inside a tank.

Somewhere he recalled reading that armored columns were supposed to move quickly and charge dramatically into battle. Well, it wasn’t happening this day. The tanks and tank destroyers were in the front of the column, while half-tracks and trucks followed. Literally hundreds of armored and support vehicles were lined up in the narrow dirt road, and all were heading into combat for the first time as a unit. That is, if they ever got there.

The hedgerows in this area weren’t as bad as those closer to the Normandy coast, but they were difficult enough. They constricted vision and forced the regiment into one long single-file column.

Morgan had drawn PFC Snyder again as his driver. Jack yawned and glared at the half-track in front of them. A dozen men were stuffed into it and they all looked bored as hell. His radioman dozed in the back seat. His chief NCO, Sergeant Major Rolfe, and his two lieutenants, Hazen and Vance, rode in vehicles behind him.

Morgan decided to make light of it. “At this rate, Snyder, the war’ll be over before we get to it.”

Snyder grinned. With Morgan his commanding officer, he was no longer the taciturn and bored driver who’d brought him to the regiment. “Fine by me, sir.”

There was a loud crack and the half-track in front exploded. Bodies flew through the track’s open top and into the air. “What the hell?” Morgan said.

Flames erupted from the stricken vehicle as it slowly fell onto its side. A handful of survivors crawled out. One was on fire. Others screamed and tried to crawl away. Snyder floored the accelerator and pulled off the road to their left just as a second crack sounded and the vehicle in front of the dying half-track also exploded. Their Jeep slid onto its side and all three men jumped out.

It was a German ambush. “Everybody out of the trucks,” Morgan yelled. The order was unnecessary as everyone was doing just that. He jumped up and ran down the line to repeat the order to a handful of men who remained frozen in place, grabbing a couple by the collar and hurling them to the ground. Sergeant Major Rolfe was already doing the same thing, but Morgan’s young lieutenants, Vance and Hazen, seemed dazed and confused, and remained in their vehicles. Jack grabbed Hazen and threw him on the ground. Vance shook off his shock and climbed down. All up and down the line trucks were emptying of men.

Crack!

Rolfe dropped down beside Morgan, who was hugging the ground. “It’s a German eighty-eight, Captain. I remember the sound of the fuckers from North Africa and Sicily.”

The squat bow-legged sergeant was one of his few veterans. Properly identifying their enemy was one thing, but doing something about it was something else.

Crack, and another truck exploded. “It’s a turkey shoot,” Rolfe said. “You’re in charge, Captain. I suggest we do something.”

A Sherman tank roared down the line of trucks, its stubby seventy-five looking for a target. It was on the Germans’ side of the road and the stalled vehicles, and its run exposed the tank’s less heavily armored side.

Crack, and the tank lurched to a halt. Black smoke began to pour from its hatches as the crew stumbled out. Only two of the five made it before the ammunition in the tank began to explode.

“God help the poor bastards,” said Rolfe.

“Can you see where the kraut gun is?” Morgan asked.

“Kinda. I thought I saw a flash in those trees to our left front, maybe a quarter mile away.”

The area wasn’t as thick with hedges and trees as the ancient farms around the Normandy invasion site, but the foliage was thick enough to hide an antitank gun.

“Then get everybody shooting in that general direction. If nothing else, it’ll keep them pinned down a little. I’m going to take some volunteers and see if we can creep up on it before the son of a bitch destroys the whole regiment.”

He started to run, but slipped, falling on his knees. He gagged as he realized he’d stepped in the intestines of a soldier who was gasping and flailing his arms. All around him men were yelling and screaming. A few were trying to help the wounded, but panic reigned. If the Germans had a machine gun on this side of the road, they would have slaughtered the men of the 74th like sheep. He shook off his shock and got up.

With Rolfe’s sometimes aggressive assistance, Morgan grabbed a half dozen “volunteers” and headed out to their right. He ordered the men left behind to keep shooting in the general direction of the German gun. Maybe they’d hit something. Maybe they’d help keep the Germans’ heads down. At least it would give them something to do. He hoped to keep out of sight until he was behind the German gun.

No such luck. They had just squeezed through a section of hedgerow and onto some farmer’s field when a machine gun opened up and two of his men fell. One was clearly dead while the other grabbed his leg, then writhed and screamed as blood spurted out. Of course the Germans would be expecting a flank attack, Jack thought savagely. Of course they would have machine guns waiting to cut the attackers to pieces. Damn it. What was he thinking?

A second Sherman arrived, but this one’s commander was smarter. He drove down the other side of the road, keeping the damaged and burning U.S. vehicles between him and the Germans. Then he turned to his left, presenting his more heavily armored front, and began spraying the trees with his machine guns while the seventy-five millimeter gun chewed up the place where they thought they saw the gun flashes. Jack was dismayed that there was so little rifle fire coming from the men in the stalled column. Was he the only one who wanted to take on the Germans?

After firing a few rounds, the tank crossed the road and moved carefully towards the trees. There was no return fire. Jack gathered his remaining volunteers and, reinforced by more men and Sergeant Major Rolfe, they moved slowly towards the enemy position.

The Germans had departed, but two of their comrades lay sprawled on the ground as testimony to the fact that the fight hadn’t been totally one-sided. However, the eighty-eight and the machine guns were gone. Tracks showed where the Germans had loaded up and moved out down another dirt road. The Germans had done what they’d set out to do, a quick massacre of a helpless column at the cost of only a couple of dead krauts.

Morgan laid his weapon against a tree and tried to control the shaking that was affecting his hands. He hadn’t fired a shot. “Nice try, Captain,” said Rolfe. He offered his canteen to Morgan who gratefully accepted. “Your first battle, sir?”

“Is it that obvious?” he asked and Rolfe chuckled.

Behind them the dead and dying were being picked up while destroyed and damaged vehicles were pushed off the road. The column was moving again. Morgan wondered if this was how it was going to be all the way to the Rhine and beyond.

Hours later the column had lurched to a halt and Morgan did a quick job of setting up a security perimeter-no real fortifications, only barbed wire this time as it was understood they’d be on the move again tomorrow morning. They hadn’t reached the actual front lines, although the sound of artillery had grown sharper and they’d passed through American 155mm batteries firing at something off in the distance. Along with the one-sided fighting earlier in the day, the effect was sobering.

Morgan wasn’t surprised when Colonel Stoddard told him to report. Like Levin said, unless provoked or served incompetently, Stoddard was a fairly decent sort. A West Pointer in his mid-forties, he was short like most tankers, had thinning gray hair and eyes that pierced right through you.

Morgan reported and was told to sit down. “Captain, I just don’t know whether to congratulate you or kick you in the head. Your stunt this afternoon showed initiative and courage under fire and for that you are to be commended. However, you took half a dozen men on a senseless foray and now one is dead and another badly wounded. What do you have to say?”

Jack took a deep breath. What’s the worst Stoddard can do, he wondered, send me home? “Colonel, we were under fire and men were dying. I did what I thought was best. I hoped to distract the eighty-eight and maybe get them to withdraw. I didn’t suspect a machine gun, just like we didn’t expect the eighty-eight.”

“It was about a quarter mile away and you told your men to start shooting at it while you tried to flank it. Did you really think they’d hit anything?”

“No sir. I just hoped to confuse the Germans and give our boys something to shoot back at. Frankly, sir, I was a little disconcerted at how few of our guys actually did shoot.”

“Why didn’t you wait for the cavalry?”

“I saw the first tank come down and get killed. I didn’t want to wait for another to come and die.”

Lieutenant Colonel Whiteside came in and took a folding chair by Stoddard. “I have casualty figures, Colonel. Fifteen dead and eleven wounded, several seriously.”

Stoddard winced in pain. He might be a gruff bastard but he obviously cared for his men as much as he cared about protecting his skin. And, Morgan thought sadly, one of the dead and one of the wounded was a result of his actions. He could still see the half-track in front of his Jeep blowing up and the Sherman being destroyed. That was why there were more dead than wounded. Nobody had a chance to get out.

“We learned a lot today,” Stoddard said quietly. “First, we will have flankers out whenever possible, although the damned hedgerows hinder that. Second, we will have heavy weapons mixed in among the helpless so they can fight back. In sum, Morgan, you did well. Perfect? No. But well. You actually did something while others were hiding in the grass and crying for their mommies.”

“Colonel, I was scared shitless, too.”

“But, like the colonel said, you actually did something,” said Whiteside, “and you learned a dirty little secret today. In combat, many, many men will simply freeze and not fire their weapons.” He handed Jack a small box. “This just came for you, Captain.”

Puzzled, Morgan opened it. His jaw dropped. It was a Bronze Star. “What the hell is this for, sir?”

“Your actions on the LST,” said Whiteside. “You saved a man while the ship was blowing up, or don’t you remember? A Commander Stephens put you up for it. There was some bureaucratic disagreement as to who should give you the medal, the army or the navy since you saved a GI but were on a navy ship. It was decided the army should do it since you’re one of us. Congratulations. You’re now an official hero. “And oh yeah, you’re getting a Purple Heart as well, or had you forgotten about your shoulder and that ugly cut on your face.”

“Frankly I had, sir.”

Stoddard stood and they shook hands. “Yeah,” said Stoddard, “you’ve proven to be a pleasant surprise. Now go back and have some of Levin’s clandestine wine and tell him to bring me some, too. I need it after today.”