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Archangel85 said:
Thanks Archangel & Dataking, hope your having as much fun reading as I am writing. It's SuperSunday, and odds are there won't be another post till Monday night, but that will probably be a big one since I need to catch up...I've only posted up to June 1940, and I've played to October 1941.
Dataking...I'm really liking your AAR too...Alexei's got some cajones! hehe
Laterz!
InVert
Jumpstarting the American Century, Part IV: June, 1940
4
June 14, 1940: Ryan dozed peacefully in the quiet of the church, sheer exhaustion overcoming the discomfort of the hardwood pews. He dreamt of the sea, of the fishing boats, of the fish, of the taverns, and Oh God of the women.
“Hey, Treynor! Treynor, get out here, you gotta see this!”
He groaned, muttering something unintelligible, then went back to his dreams. Emory bounded into the church and shook him awake.
“Treynor, get up, will ya! We been reinforced!”
Ryan peeled his eyes open. Whatever he was talking about, Emory was excited.
“What’s the big deal?” he muttered. “We just got replacements three days ago. So we got some more, so what?”
“I’m tellin’ ya, Ryan, you gotta see this. These ain’t no replacements. We been reinforced!” With that, he scampered back outside.
Ryan ignored him, and began to sink back into sweet sleep. A few moments later, the sounds of the outside world, the noise of soldiers yammering on about this and that, suddenly grew from a mumble to a rumble, then to a roar. Groaning again, he decided maybe this was worth taking a look.
Sitting up was no easy task. His back let him know how it felt about sleeping on a pew, and the head wound he’d received on the boat ride to Europe throbbed like a hangover. He wondered if it would ever heal. He scanned the church with his eyes until they decided to focus, then took a quick swig from his canteen before standing up and shuffling toward the massive double doors.
Sunlight struck his eyes like a slap in the face. So it had stopped raining, he thought. Great. Perfect weather for Kraut bombers.
“Treynor, over here!” Emory called. Ryan couldn’t remember the man ever acting so much like an excited child. Squinting, shielding his eyes, he squished his way through the mud. Emory was standing on the crest of a small hill overlooking the road to Brussels. He was pointing at something down that road and chattering like a squirrel. As he approached, Ryan realized the other soldiers with Emory were just as excited. When he reached the top of the hill, he found out why.
Stretching for miles along the road to Brussels were thousands upon thousands of soldiers wearing olive green uniforms of the same cut as his, marching towards Antwerp. The line of men didn’t stop at the horizon, but seemed to pour endlessly from it. Ryan allowed himself a small whistle of wonder. He didn’t know how many there were, but the last time he’d seen that many men was when he’d disembarked at Calais.
The slurping sound of boots struggling with the mud reached his ears. Ryan spun around in time to see Sergeant Baumer plodding up the hill.
“What’s goin’ on here, fellas?” he asked. Seeing the incoming soldiers, he said, “Ah, I see General Marshall has arrived.”
“Sir?” Emory hoped the Sergeant would say more, but didn’t want to press his luck by asking stupid questions. The Sergeant uncharacteristically obliged him.
“Our strength on the continent has doubled, boys. That’s 4th Corps there. Six divisions, just like us. 2nd Corps under McNair should be just behind them. That gives us 24 divisions now.”
Ryan whistled again. Then realization struck. These guys weren't coming here to keep them company. There was an attack brewing. Baumer caught the look on his face.
“You got it, Ryan. Hitler had plans for Europe. We’re gonna be the monkeywrench in those plans. Get some rest, boys. You’ll need it.” He turned and left.
Ryan chewed on Baumers' words for a moment, then smiled. Monkewrench. He liked the sound of that.
The American Monkeywrench
Standard Infantry Corps, 1940
* * *
June 28, 1940: The 950 horsepower Wright Cyclone thrummed contentedly as the Dutch countryside slid by 25,000 feet below him. Travis’ eyes darted from one corner of the sky to another, searching the sky for the Messerchmitts that lurked in the clouds. Two months ago, he’d been bored out of his mind flying the endless hours with little more than the flak to snap him awake. Those fighter-less days were long gone now. Hardly a mission passed without at least a few American planes spiraling to their fiery doom. Usually, he reminded himself darkly, it was more than just a few.
It wouldn’t be so many if the damn egg-heads back in the states would wise up and get some better fighters over here. Sure, the Buffalos had the range to keep up with the B-17s, but if they couldn’t survive tangling with a Messerschmitt or two, what good were they? His own bird had taken its fair share of enemy fire, and he knew it was only luck that he’d survived to fly his twentieth mission. Luck, and sharp eyes. A tiny flash of reflected sunlight sent his heartbeat racing. He thumbed the radio.
“Bandits, 2 o’clock high!”
A half dozen responses confirmed his report as he shoved the throttle forward. The Buffalo roared menacingly as he nosed up, trying to gain as much altitude as he could. His wingman, a New Yorker named Frank, skillfully followed. The Messerschmitts steadily grew larger as the distance closed, and two of them broke off to meet him. The rest continued on towards the bombers, or broke off to meet other Buffalos.
“OK, Frank, just like Commander Thatch taught us.”
“You got it,” his wingman answered, his voice calm and resolved.
Travis tightened his grip on the stick, leaning forward slightly as he hurtled towards the 109s. The German fighters roared toward him. He marveled for a second at the sick game of Chicken playing itself out three miles above the Netherlands. Then he yanked the stick to the right just as the enemy planes began to flicker with fire, the force of several Gs pressing him into his seat. Simultaneously, Frank shoved his plane to the left, the two Buffalos nearly colliding as both pilots struggled vainly to ply some grace from the ungainly craft. Gritting his teeth, Travis pulled the Buffalo through as tight a turn as he could, knowing Frank was doing the same.
Within a few seconds, the maneuver was finished. As anticipated, the German pilots had been confused by the Americans suddenly showing them their tails, but being experienced pilots, had quickly cut throttle and nosed up to keep from overshooting them. Travis swore under his breath. He’d hoped they would overshoot, so he could shoot them in the back without having to go through with this silly cat and mouse game. No such luck. Craning his neck, he could see the Messerschmitts nosing down, trying to shoot him in the back.
Tracers sizzled by his cockpit as he wrenched the Buffalo into a diving left turn. He snapped his head back to make sure the Jerries were following him before reversing the turn, yanking the stick back to the right, stomping on the rudder pedal. The Buffalo groaned with the strain, and spots began to form in his eyes as the blood drained from his head. Through his dizziness, Frank’s Buffalo suddenly loomed large, spitting fire directly at him.
A dull explosion told him exactly what he needed to know. The maneuver had worked, and Frank had nailed at least one of the Messerschmitts tailing him. Leveling out, he craned his neck, searching for the other 109. He found it trailing smoke and limping toward a bank of clouds. A few short bursts sent it spiraling down in flames.
Frank whooped in triumph. Through the radio, he sounded like a robotic banshee. He nosed his Buffalo up, back toward the B-17s. The exhilaration of the kill quickly faded. Several Fortresses were trailing smoke, and occasionally one would roll over and plunge earthward. Messerschmitts buzzed around them like deadly gnats, gnawing at the lumbering bombers, while the sluggish Buffalos desperately tried to shoo them away.
“C’mon, Frank, this ain’t over yet.”
Brewster F2A Buffalo
Messerschmitt Bf.109E
The Thatch Weave
Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress
4
June 14, 1940: Ryan dozed peacefully in the quiet of the church, sheer exhaustion overcoming the discomfort of the hardwood pews. He dreamt of the sea, of the fishing boats, of the fish, of the taverns, and Oh God of the women.
“Hey, Treynor! Treynor, get out here, you gotta see this!”
He groaned, muttering something unintelligible, then went back to his dreams. Emory bounded into the church and shook him awake.
“Treynor, get up, will ya! We been reinforced!”
Ryan peeled his eyes open. Whatever he was talking about, Emory was excited.
“What’s the big deal?” he muttered. “We just got replacements three days ago. So we got some more, so what?”
“I’m tellin’ ya, Ryan, you gotta see this. These ain’t no replacements. We been reinforced!” With that, he scampered back outside.
Ryan ignored him, and began to sink back into sweet sleep. A few moments later, the sounds of the outside world, the noise of soldiers yammering on about this and that, suddenly grew from a mumble to a rumble, then to a roar. Groaning again, he decided maybe this was worth taking a look.
Sitting up was no easy task. His back let him know how it felt about sleeping on a pew, and the head wound he’d received on the boat ride to Europe throbbed like a hangover. He wondered if it would ever heal. He scanned the church with his eyes until they decided to focus, then took a quick swig from his canteen before standing up and shuffling toward the massive double doors.
Sunlight struck his eyes like a slap in the face. So it had stopped raining, he thought. Great. Perfect weather for Kraut bombers.
“Treynor, over here!” Emory called. Ryan couldn’t remember the man ever acting so much like an excited child. Squinting, shielding his eyes, he squished his way through the mud. Emory was standing on the crest of a small hill overlooking the road to Brussels. He was pointing at something down that road and chattering like a squirrel. As he approached, Ryan realized the other soldiers with Emory were just as excited. When he reached the top of the hill, he found out why.
Stretching for miles along the road to Brussels were thousands upon thousands of soldiers wearing olive green uniforms of the same cut as his, marching towards Antwerp. The line of men didn’t stop at the horizon, but seemed to pour endlessly from it. Ryan allowed himself a small whistle of wonder. He didn’t know how many there were, but the last time he’d seen that many men was when he’d disembarked at Calais.
The slurping sound of boots struggling with the mud reached his ears. Ryan spun around in time to see Sergeant Baumer plodding up the hill.
“What’s goin’ on here, fellas?” he asked. Seeing the incoming soldiers, he said, “Ah, I see General Marshall has arrived.”
“Sir?” Emory hoped the Sergeant would say more, but didn’t want to press his luck by asking stupid questions. The Sergeant uncharacteristically obliged him.
“Our strength on the continent has doubled, boys. That’s 4th Corps there. Six divisions, just like us. 2nd Corps under McNair should be just behind them. That gives us 24 divisions now.”
Ryan whistled again. Then realization struck. These guys weren't coming here to keep them company. There was an attack brewing. Baumer caught the look on his face.
“You got it, Ryan. Hitler had plans for Europe. We’re gonna be the monkeywrench in those plans. Get some rest, boys. You’ll need it.” He turned and left.
Ryan chewed on Baumers' words for a moment, then smiled. Monkewrench. He liked the sound of that.
The American Monkeywrench
Standard Infantry Corps, 1940
* * *
June 28, 1940: The 950 horsepower Wright Cyclone thrummed contentedly as the Dutch countryside slid by 25,000 feet below him. Travis’ eyes darted from one corner of the sky to another, searching the sky for the Messerchmitts that lurked in the clouds. Two months ago, he’d been bored out of his mind flying the endless hours with little more than the flak to snap him awake. Those fighter-less days were long gone now. Hardly a mission passed without at least a few American planes spiraling to their fiery doom. Usually, he reminded himself darkly, it was more than just a few.
It wouldn’t be so many if the damn egg-heads back in the states would wise up and get some better fighters over here. Sure, the Buffalos had the range to keep up with the B-17s, but if they couldn’t survive tangling with a Messerschmitt or two, what good were they? His own bird had taken its fair share of enemy fire, and he knew it was only luck that he’d survived to fly his twentieth mission. Luck, and sharp eyes. A tiny flash of reflected sunlight sent his heartbeat racing. He thumbed the radio.
“Bandits, 2 o’clock high!”
A half dozen responses confirmed his report as he shoved the throttle forward. The Buffalo roared menacingly as he nosed up, trying to gain as much altitude as he could. His wingman, a New Yorker named Frank, skillfully followed. The Messerschmitts steadily grew larger as the distance closed, and two of them broke off to meet him. The rest continued on towards the bombers, or broke off to meet other Buffalos.
“OK, Frank, just like Commander Thatch taught us.”
“You got it,” his wingman answered, his voice calm and resolved.
Travis tightened his grip on the stick, leaning forward slightly as he hurtled towards the 109s. The German fighters roared toward him. He marveled for a second at the sick game of Chicken playing itself out three miles above the Netherlands. Then he yanked the stick to the right just as the enemy planes began to flicker with fire, the force of several Gs pressing him into his seat. Simultaneously, Frank shoved his plane to the left, the two Buffalos nearly colliding as both pilots struggled vainly to ply some grace from the ungainly craft. Gritting his teeth, Travis pulled the Buffalo through as tight a turn as he could, knowing Frank was doing the same.
Within a few seconds, the maneuver was finished. As anticipated, the German pilots had been confused by the Americans suddenly showing them their tails, but being experienced pilots, had quickly cut throttle and nosed up to keep from overshooting them. Travis swore under his breath. He’d hoped they would overshoot, so he could shoot them in the back without having to go through with this silly cat and mouse game. No such luck. Craning his neck, he could see the Messerschmitts nosing down, trying to shoot him in the back.
Tracers sizzled by his cockpit as he wrenched the Buffalo into a diving left turn. He snapped his head back to make sure the Jerries were following him before reversing the turn, yanking the stick back to the right, stomping on the rudder pedal. The Buffalo groaned with the strain, and spots began to form in his eyes as the blood drained from his head. Through his dizziness, Frank’s Buffalo suddenly loomed large, spitting fire directly at him.
A dull explosion told him exactly what he needed to know. The maneuver had worked, and Frank had nailed at least one of the Messerschmitts tailing him. Leveling out, he craned his neck, searching for the other 109. He found it trailing smoke and limping toward a bank of clouds. A few short bursts sent it spiraling down in flames.
Frank whooped in triumph. Through the radio, he sounded like a robotic banshee. He nosed his Buffalo up, back toward the B-17s. The exhilaration of the kill quickly faded. Several Fortresses were trailing smoke, and occasionally one would roll over and plunge earthward. Messerschmitts buzzed around them like deadly gnats, gnawing at the lumbering bombers, while the sluggish Buffalos desperately tried to shoo them away.
“C’mon, Frank, this ain’t over yet.”
Brewster F2A Buffalo
Messerschmitt Bf.109E
The Thatch Weave
Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress
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Nice! Keep up the good work.
I can't help but fret about the fate of 60 divisions in the path of Hitler's armies. eeg.
I can't help but fret about the fate of 60 divisions in the path of Hitler's armies. eeg.
Hey guys, I just wanted to make sure my pics and screenshots are working, no one has said anything about them, and sometimes they don't work on my computer. Are they working?
To all who've offered their praise, thank you!
To all who've offered their praise, thank you!
Jumpstarting the American Century, Part V: July-August, 1940
5
July 4, 1940: Lieutenant Kyle West peered through his binoculars. Somewhere hidden in the trees out there was the German line. A week ago, that line had been much further south. But a week ago, there hadn’t been any Americans here. Yesterday, his troops from the 43rd infantry division had poured into their current lines, digging into the soft earth, setting up machine guns and mortars, digging firing pits for the T30s. The rest of 7th Corps had dug in on both sides, and more troops, according to the brass, were on the way. In the meantime, orders were to hold. He scanned as many of the trees as he could see, searching for snipers. Seeing none, he slid back down into his foxhole.
It was Independence Day back home, he thought. People would be lighting off fireworks and baking pies and drinking beer. Here, the men were lucky to have a warm meal. At least it’s July, not December, he thought. Norway in July wasn’t much different than Michigan. Actually, when you thought about, it was better in most respects. It wasn’t so hot, and not nearly as humid. Come to think of it, the only thing about Norway he didn’t like was there were Germans here. He scowled. Only one way to fix that.
“Lieutenant West! Lieutenant West!” Though the soldier was smart enough to keep his voice hushed, he sounded no less urgent. Kyle flagged him down, and seconds later, Private Brandon Bailey slid into the foxhole next to him. He was out of breath, pink-faced, and like his other soldiers, filthy from head to toe.
“What is it?”
“Sir, Captain Turrill wants you back at Regiment right away. I gotta jeep at the base of the hill and I’m to take you there personally, sir.”
Kyle stared at Private Bailey, puzzled. Why would Bailey have to take him there himself? Did they think he’d run off into the Norwegian countryside, never to be seen again? He asked Bailey.
“All I know is what they tell me.”
Cursing, Kyle passed the news on to his sergeants, then hurried down the hill to the jeep. Bailey hopped in next to him, cranked the engine, and they sped off. The ride was just long enough for Kyle to marvel at how beautiful the countryside was. Smirking, he decided sneaking off into the countryside wouldn’t have been such a bad idea if the penalty wasn’t a cigarette and a slug. Besides, right now that beautiful countryside was crawling with Germans. The jeep slid to a stop in front of what must have been a farmhouse. The letters stenciled to the front door betrayed its current identity as regimental headquarters. He stepped inside.
He’d expected the place to be crowded, smoky, and tense with the knowledge that something was about to happen. Instead, only Captain Turrill and Lieutenant Barker, the regimental supply officer, sat smoking and chatting quietly. Confused, Kyle stepped forward, saluting.
“Lieutenant West reporting as ordered, sir.”
Turrill looked up at Kyle as though he’d never seen him before. The captain always did that. He had the annoying ability of making the men he’d served with for the last few years feel like complete strangers. The men didn’t particularly like him for that. Kyle loathed him.
“Ah, yes, Lieutenant West. How are your men?”
“The men are fine sir. They’re dug in, reinforcing their covers as we speak.”
“You need anything? Food? Ammunition?”
Kyle resisted the urge to ask him what the hell he was talking about. They’d only arrived in Norway the day before yesterday. If he thought the men had eaten through their rations and shot off all their ammo already than he must be living in a fantasy world. He hadn’t heard a shot fired in anger yet.
“No, sir, we are amply supplied.”
“Good,” Captain Turrill nodded. Folding his hands behind his back, he began pacing, staring at the floor. Kyle stood there in silence for more than a minute before breaking down.
“Sir, why am I here?”
Turrill stopped and looked at Kyle, not menacingly, but with a look of such sadness in his eyes that Kyle was suddenly overcome with dread. Another minute of silence passed before the Captain finally spoke.
“I have been informed by General DeWitt that we should expect an assault during the night.”
Kyle’s mouth dropped open a bit. He couldn’t believe the captain was being so melodramatic over the idea that the Krauts might attack during the night. He’d figured that out all by himself, was even counting on it, had a nice surprise waiting for them if they did. Suddenly he was angry, no, furious that the captain had dragged him away from the front to tell him something so obvious.
“Will that be all, sir?” he asked, the sarcasm practically dripping from the words as they hung in the air.
“Kyle,” Turrill said. That startled him. He had no idea the captain new what his first name was. “Kyle, this will be more than a simple assault. The Krauts have landed a couple divisions of paratroopers north of us in Trondheim. The Germans will have to link up with them soon or they’ll starve. They can’t be supplied by ship or plane, we control the seas and the skies. The only way is overland, and that means straight through us. Do you understand?”
Kyle stood there for a moment, stunned. If the intelligence was correct, there were 5 or 6 German divisions out there, and if Captain Turrill was correct, they'd all be headed his way tonight. He’d never been in combat before, had only been in the Army for a few years. He’d never seen a man killed, or done any killing himself. And now he knew that tonight, the war was coming to him in a big way, to him and every man in his company. Kyle’s heart suddenly sank as he pondered how many of his men – or if he – would survive the night.
Yankees in the Fjords
T30 75mm HMC Self-Propelled Artillery
* * *
July 24, 1940: Roosevelt shifted uncomfortably in his chair as the flashbulbs popped. For the umpteenth time, he grasped the hand of Edouard Daladier, the French Prime Minister, and posed for the photographers. Daladier had come to Washington ostensibly to bolster the Franco-American alliance, or so the papers said. In reality, he’d come to hassle Roosevelt for more troops. Roosevelt chuckled to himself. To him, that may as well have been the same thing.
Daladier heard Roosevelt chuckle and eyed him. Roosevelt could sense the suspicion even if the Frenchman was too skilled a diplomat to let it show on his face. He hoped his face was as skilled as Daladier’s at hiding his strong dislike for the man. Oh well, he thought, I don’t have to like him, only to deal with him. Although he couldn’t tell for sure, he suspected Daladier felt the same way.
After a few more minutes of pictures, the reporters were shooed out of the room so the two men could finally get down to business. Daladier smiled as he began to speak.
“Monsieur President, once again, the French government extends its deepest gratitude for the swift deployment of American troops to Europe. Their efforts in Belgium and Holland have been instrumental in the solidification of the front.”
“On behalf of the United States, I thank you for your kind words, and would like to extend my personal congratulations to your soldiers, who appear to have halted the German offensive in southern Belgium and Luxembourg.”
Daladier nodded, then went on. “It now appears, as you have just stated, that the Germans are bogged down. You, the Belgians, and the Dutch are holding them up in the north, while we pin them down in the south. Our military leaders believe now is the time to strike, but your generals refuse to cooperate without your orders. I am here to ask that you order your commanders to cooperate with us, so that we may drive the Huns back across the Rhine.”
Roosevelt shook his head. “Mr. Prime Minister, as you know, due to the unfortunate turn of events in Norway, I was forced so send 12 divisions there. Thus, only 48 American divisions are in Europe, as opposed to the planned 60, and, while they have been successful in halting the German offensive, their ability to throw the Germans back I still consider to be limited. I would also like to remind you that our troops were quite recently driven from our last toehold in Holland, and even out of Antwerp. It would be unwise, I believe, to launch an attack at the current moment. However, we have 6 armored divisions in training at the moment, the first of which will become active in a few months. As our armored divisions come online, and our troops rest, reorganize, and gain more experience, you may rest assured that our boys there will begin to push back. Until that time, we and the British feel we should remain on the defensive.”
With the reporters gone, and without the answer he was looking for, Daladier didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. He leaned back in his seat and sighed loudly.
“That is the answer we had expected, although it is not the one we had hoped for. Nevertheless, we understand your position, and have a secondary proposal. We believe the German troops opposing you are exhausted after fighting their way into the great cities of Holland...”
“Yes, they appear to be, but our boys are equally exhausted.”
Daladier glared at the interruption, then continued. “If it were possible for the French Army to dispatch a force to Belgium, full of fresh troops, would you be able to support that force, and possibly exploit any breakthroughs that force may achieve?”
Roosevelt chewed on that for a moment. 23rd and 33rd Corps were recent arrivals in Europe, and while they’d participated in the battles for Eindhoven, Amsterdam, and Antwerp, they’d fared much better than their compatriots. With a few days rest, they may be ready to move if the French managed to force a breakthrough.
“Mr. Prime Minister, if I have troops capable of such action, then you have my word that they will be there in support of the French Army. May I have a moment to consult the Chief of the Army?”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
Roosevelt was only gone for a few minutes, and he came back a happy man.
“Mr. Prime Minister, General Craig tells me that, if given a few days, 23rd and 33rd Corps shall be at your disposal. That’s 12 divisions. It isn’t quite enough to take Berlin, but I hope it meets with your approval.”
Daladier smiled. “Very much so, Mr. President.”
Roosevelt smiled back. “Good. On to other business then.”
Stalling Hitler's Hordes
* * *
August 4, 1940: Ryan Treynor hugged the ground behind a ruined car, doing his best to disappear. Somewhere up the street, a German machinegun occasionally chattered away, pinning the rest of his squad down. Artillery thumped in the distance, but too far away to tell if it was friendly or hostile. What did it matter if the shells weren’t falling around him? He didn’t hear any rifles, but that didn’t surprise him. A German sniper had his entire squad covered, discouraging everyone from trying to take a potshot at the German nest. In the dusk, a muzzle flash was a death wish until someone took out that sniper.
Laying there in the street, Ryan had plenty of time to curse General Richardson for volunteering the services of 1st U.S. Army Corps in the French offensive to retake Amsterdam. Rumor had it the President had already given the French two full corps, but Richardson couldn’t bear to be out of the brawl. So here he was, back in Antwerp, sprawled out behind a wrecked car, the only one who could see if German infantry were advancing. It would be up to him to let the rest of the fellas know they were coming. They’d tried it once, and left about twenty of them in the street before they’d scurried back to their own lines. Ryan didn’t expect them to come again before nightfall.
To his left, he heard the thump of boots. Twisting around, he saw Sergeant Baumer trotting up a side alley toward the street clutching his Springfield, a cigar clenched in his teeth. Ryan wondered idly where the big man had gotten the cigar. Baumer hunkered down just before reaching the street, then gave Ryan a series of hand signals. Ryan blinked, then nodded. He crossed himself, then pulled himself to his feet, still squatting behind the car.
A soldier Ryan had never seen before suddenly appeared behind Baumer, a scoped Springfield cradled gently in his arms. He wasn’t that large, but the look in his eyes was enough to send a chill down his spine. His arrival sparked movement in the other members of the squad. Well, those who were still alive, he reminded himself. Within a few moments they were ready to go. Ryan took a deep breath, and darted out from behind the car.
At first, Ryan thought he’d caught the sniper napping. He was halfway toward his next piece of cover, a small concrete wall, when something hot seared his leg. He toppled to the ground in the open street, and began to scream. The machinegun began chattering again, stitching the street around him, sending tiny chunks of concrete and asphalt flying. Rifles barked back, and soon the whole street was ablaze with gunfire. He began to feel light headed, his hand moving of itself to the wound in his leg. His fingers found a ragged hole in his calf, and came back slippery and red. Oh God, he thought. I’m going to bleed to death.
A few seconds later, the chattering stopped, and much to Ryan’s surprise, a medic crouched over him. Ryan didn’t hear what he said, tried to ask him how bad it was. He thought he was dead for a moment, but was convinced otherwise by a jolt of pain. The medic had been none too gentle about cinching up the tourniquet. The next thing he knew, he was on a stretcher, floating back through the streets of Antwerp.
5
July 4, 1940: Lieutenant Kyle West peered through his binoculars. Somewhere hidden in the trees out there was the German line. A week ago, that line had been much further south. But a week ago, there hadn’t been any Americans here. Yesterday, his troops from the 43rd infantry division had poured into their current lines, digging into the soft earth, setting up machine guns and mortars, digging firing pits for the T30s. The rest of 7th Corps had dug in on both sides, and more troops, according to the brass, were on the way. In the meantime, orders were to hold. He scanned as many of the trees as he could see, searching for snipers. Seeing none, he slid back down into his foxhole.
It was Independence Day back home, he thought. People would be lighting off fireworks and baking pies and drinking beer. Here, the men were lucky to have a warm meal. At least it’s July, not December, he thought. Norway in July wasn’t much different than Michigan. Actually, when you thought about, it was better in most respects. It wasn’t so hot, and not nearly as humid. Come to think of it, the only thing about Norway he didn’t like was there were Germans here. He scowled. Only one way to fix that.
“Lieutenant West! Lieutenant West!” Though the soldier was smart enough to keep his voice hushed, he sounded no less urgent. Kyle flagged him down, and seconds later, Private Brandon Bailey slid into the foxhole next to him. He was out of breath, pink-faced, and like his other soldiers, filthy from head to toe.
“What is it?”
“Sir, Captain Turrill wants you back at Regiment right away. I gotta jeep at the base of the hill and I’m to take you there personally, sir.”
Kyle stared at Private Bailey, puzzled. Why would Bailey have to take him there himself? Did they think he’d run off into the Norwegian countryside, never to be seen again? He asked Bailey.
“All I know is what they tell me.”
Cursing, Kyle passed the news on to his sergeants, then hurried down the hill to the jeep. Bailey hopped in next to him, cranked the engine, and they sped off. The ride was just long enough for Kyle to marvel at how beautiful the countryside was. Smirking, he decided sneaking off into the countryside wouldn’t have been such a bad idea if the penalty wasn’t a cigarette and a slug. Besides, right now that beautiful countryside was crawling with Germans. The jeep slid to a stop in front of what must have been a farmhouse. The letters stenciled to the front door betrayed its current identity as regimental headquarters. He stepped inside.
He’d expected the place to be crowded, smoky, and tense with the knowledge that something was about to happen. Instead, only Captain Turrill and Lieutenant Barker, the regimental supply officer, sat smoking and chatting quietly. Confused, Kyle stepped forward, saluting.
“Lieutenant West reporting as ordered, sir.”
Turrill looked up at Kyle as though he’d never seen him before. The captain always did that. He had the annoying ability of making the men he’d served with for the last few years feel like complete strangers. The men didn’t particularly like him for that. Kyle loathed him.
“Ah, yes, Lieutenant West. How are your men?”
“The men are fine sir. They’re dug in, reinforcing their covers as we speak.”
“You need anything? Food? Ammunition?”
Kyle resisted the urge to ask him what the hell he was talking about. They’d only arrived in Norway the day before yesterday. If he thought the men had eaten through their rations and shot off all their ammo already than he must be living in a fantasy world. He hadn’t heard a shot fired in anger yet.
“No, sir, we are amply supplied.”
“Good,” Captain Turrill nodded. Folding his hands behind his back, he began pacing, staring at the floor. Kyle stood there in silence for more than a minute before breaking down.
“Sir, why am I here?”
Turrill stopped and looked at Kyle, not menacingly, but with a look of such sadness in his eyes that Kyle was suddenly overcome with dread. Another minute of silence passed before the Captain finally spoke.
“I have been informed by General DeWitt that we should expect an assault during the night.”
Kyle’s mouth dropped open a bit. He couldn’t believe the captain was being so melodramatic over the idea that the Krauts might attack during the night. He’d figured that out all by himself, was even counting on it, had a nice surprise waiting for them if they did. Suddenly he was angry, no, furious that the captain had dragged him away from the front to tell him something so obvious.
“Will that be all, sir?” he asked, the sarcasm practically dripping from the words as they hung in the air.
“Kyle,” Turrill said. That startled him. He had no idea the captain new what his first name was. “Kyle, this will be more than a simple assault. The Krauts have landed a couple divisions of paratroopers north of us in Trondheim. The Germans will have to link up with them soon or they’ll starve. They can’t be supplied by ship or plane, we control the seas and the skies. The only way is overland, and that means straight through us. Do you understand?”
Kyle stood there for a moment, stunned. If the intelligence was correct, there were 5 or 6 German divisions out there, and if Captain Turrill was correct, they'd all be headed his way tonight. He’d never been in combat before, had only been in the Army for a few years. He’d never seen a man killed, or done any killing himself. And now he knew that tonight, the war was coming to him in a big way, to him and every man in his company. Kyle’s heart suddenly sank as he pondered how many of his men – or if he – would survive the night.
Yankees in the Fjords
T30 75mm HMC Self-Propelled Artillery
* * *
July 24, 1940: Roosevelt shifted uncomfortably in his chair as the flashbulbs popped. For the umpteenth time, he grasped the hand of Edouard Daladier, the French Prime Minister, and posed for the photographers. Daladier had come to Washington ostensibly to bolster the Franco-American alliance, or so the papers said. In reality, he’d come to hassle Roosevelt for more troops. Roosevelt chuckled to himself. To him, that may as well have been the same thing.
Daladier heard Roosevelt chuckle and eyed him. Roosevelt could sense the suspicion even if the Frenchman was too skilled a diplomat to let it show on his face. He hoped his face was as skilled as Daladier’s at hiding his strong dislike for the man. Oh well, he thought, I don’t have to like him, only to deal with him. Although he couldn’t tell for sure, he suspected Daladier felt the same way.
After a few more minutes of pictures, the reporters were shooed out of the room so the two men could finally get down to business. Daladier smiled as he began to speak.
“Monsieur President, once again, the French government extends its deepest gratitude for the swift deployment of American troops to Europe. Their efforts in Belgium and Holland have been instrumental in the solidification of the front.”
“On behalf of the United States, I thank you for your kind words, and would like to extend my personal congratulations to your soldiers, who appear to have halted the German offensive in southern Belgium and Luxembourg.”
Daladier nodded, then went on. “It now appears, as you have just stated, that the Germans are bogged down. You, the Belgians, and the Dutch are holding them up in the north, while we pin them down in the south. Our military leaders believe now is the time to strike, but your generals refuse to cooperate without your orders. I am here to ask that you order your commanders to cooperate with us, so that we may drive the Huns back across the Rhine.”
Roosevelt shook his head. “Mr. Prime Minister, as you know, due to the unfortunate turn of events in Norway, I was forced so send 12 divisions there. Thus, only 48 American divisions are in Europe, as opposed to the planned 60, and, while they have been successful in halting the German offensive, their ability to throw the Germans back I still consider to be limited. I would also like to remind you that our troops were quite recently driven from our last toehold in Holland, and even out of Antwerp. It would be unwise, I believe, to launch an attack at the current moment. However, we have 6 armored divisions in training at the moment, the first of which will become active in a few months. As our armored divisions come online, and our troops rest, reorganize, and gain more experience, you may rest assured that our boys there will begin to push back. Until that time, we and the British feel we should remain on the defensive.”
With the reporters gone, and without the answer he was looking for, Daladier didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. He leaned back in his seat and sighed loudly.
“That is the answer we had expected, although it is not the one we had hoped for. Nevertheless, we understand your position, and have a secondary proposal. We believe the German troops opposing you are exhausted after fighting their way into the great cities of Holland...”
“Yes, they appear to be, but our boys are equally exhausted.”
Daladier glared at the interruption, then continued. “If it were possible for the French Army to dispatch a force to Belgium, full of fresh troops, would you be able to support that force, and possibly exploit any breakthroughs that force may achieve?”
Roosevelt chewed on that for a moment. 23rd and 33rd Corps were recent arrivals in Europe, and while they’d participated in the battles for Eindhoven, Amsterdam, and Antwerp, they’d fared much better than their compatriots. With a few days rest, they may be ready to move if the French managed to force a breakthrough.
“Mr. Prime Minister, if I have troops capable of such action, then you have my word that they will be there in support of the French Army. May I have a moment to consult the Chief of the Army?”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
Roosevelt was only gone for a few minutes, and he came back a happy man.
“Mr. Prime Minister, General Craig tells me that, if given a few days, 23rd and 33rd Corps shall be at your disposal. That’s 12 divisions. It isn’t quite enough to take Berlin, but I hope it meets with your approval.”
Daladier smiled. “Very much so, Mr. President.”
Roosevelt smiled back. “Good. On to other business then.”
Stalling Hitler's Hordes
* * *
August 4, 1940: Ryan Treynor hugged the ground behind a ruined car, doing his best to disappear. Somewhere up the street, a German machinegun occasionally chattered away, pinning the rest of his squad down. Artillery thumped in the distance, but too far away to tell if it was friendly or hostile. What did it matter if the shells weren’t falling around him? He didn’t hear any rifles, but that didn’t surprise him. A German sniper had his entire squad covered, discouraging everyone from trying to take a potshot at the German nest. In the dusk, a muzzle flash was a death wish until someone took out that sniper.
Laying there in the street, Ryan had plenty of time to curse General Richardson for volunteering the services of 1st U.S. Army Corps in the French offensive to retake Amsterdam. Rumor had it the President had already given the French two full corps, but Richardson couldn’t bear to be out of the brawl. So here he was, back in Antwerp, sprawled out behind a wrecked car, the only one who could see if German infantry were advancing. It would be up to him to let the rest of the fellas know they were coming. They’d tried it once, and left about twenty of them in the street before they’d scurried back to their own lines. Ryan didn’t expect them to come again before nightfall.
To his left, he heard the thump of boots. Twisting around, he saw Sergeant Baumer trotting up a side alley toward the street clutching his Springfield, a cigar clenched in his teeth. Ryan wondered idly where the big man had gotten the cigar. Baumer hunkered down just before reaching the street, then gave Ryan a series of hand signals. Ryan blinked, then nodded. He crossed himself, then pulled himself to his feet, still squatting behind the car.
A soldier Ryan had never seen before suddenly appeared behind Baumer, a scoped Springfield cradled gently in his arms. He wasn’t that large, but the look in his eyes was enough to send a chill down his spine. His arrival sparked movement in the other members of the squad. Well, those who were still alive, he reminded himself. Within a few moments they were ready to go. Ryan took a deep breath, and darted out from behind the car.
At first, Ryan thought he’d caught the sniper napping. He was halfway toward his next piece of cover, a small concrete wall, when something hot seared his leg. He toppled to the ground in the open street, and began to scream. The machinegun began chattering again, stitching the street around him, sending tiny chunks of concrete and asphalt flying. Rifles barked back, and soon the whole street was ablaze with gunfire. He began to feel light headed, his hand moving of itself to the wound in his leg. His fingers found a ragged hole in his calf, and came back slippery and red. Oh God, he thought. I’m going to bleed to death.
A few seconds later, the chattering stopped, and much to Ryan’s surprise, a medic crouched over him. Ryan didn’t hear what he said, tried to ask him how bad it was. He thought he was dead for a moment, but was convinced otherwise by a jolt of pain. The medic had been none too gentle about cinching up the tourniquet. The next thing he knew, he was on a stretcher, floating back through the streets of Antwerp.
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Now that's good writing! 
Keep it up! Though I am unsure that transporting six infantry divisions across the Atlantic in a week was that easy in real life...
Keep it up! Though I am unsure that transporting six infantry divisions across the Atlantic in a week was that easy in real life...
Thanks!
I'm not sure if it was like that in real life, but I marked the starting and end dates for each transit. From New York to Calais was 6 days unopposed.
I'm not sure if it was like that in real life, but I marked the starting and end dates for each transit. From New York to Calais was 6 days unopposed.
anonymous4401 said:Now that's good writing!
Keep it up! Though I am unsure that transporting six infantry divisions across the Atlantic in a week was that easy in real life...
Jumpstarting the American Century, Part VI: August, 1940
6
August 17, 1940: Ryan tried his best to sleep, but since he spent most days on his back anyway, he wasn’t exactly tired. His leg hurt like hell, no matter what they gave him for the pain. The doctors kept telling him it wasn’t that bad, that in a couple weeks he’d be back on his feet, and back in the war if he wanted. He wasn’t all that eager to shoot at people again, unless, of course, he managed to find the son of a b###h who’d put a bullet through his calf. But even that wouldn’t help. That sniper was long dead, along with the machinegunner who’d done his best to turn him into Swiss cheese.
The hospital he was recovering in was in Brussels, well behind the front, but not so far that the sounds of battle couldn’t be heard. The noise was loudest in the southeast where the Krauts kept banging their heads against Allied positions around Namur. The sounds from the north were gone, or at least too faint to be heard. He hoped that meant the Franco-American offensive had been successful, or at least not a complete failure. He’d only participated in the fight for a few days before he got hit, but he’d seen enough to know the going was tough.
He'd also seen enough to be damn tired of hearing "Over There!" Some genius who'd probably never got his uniform dirty had apparently decided the troops needed a boost in moral. No matter where he put his boots in Europe, that Great War vintage marching song seemed to follow him, including the hospital. Ryan could think of plenty of things that would raise his morale, but never once had a marching song improved his mood. Eyeing the pretty Belgian nurses, however, tended to raise something that could be interpreted as his morale.
The newspapers all seemed to agree that Antwerp had indeed been retaken, but beyond that nobody seemed to know what was going on. Some said Amsterdam had been liberated, others said the Allies were still fighting in Rotterdam and Eindhoven. One paper even claimed French troops had crossed into Germany east of Arnhem. That report sounded dubious to Ryan. It had only been vastly superior numbers that had allowed his compatriots to grind the Krauts out of Antwerp. If the French had suddenly burst into Germany, he’d eat his helmet.
“Newspapers,” Ryan snorted. He doubted he could load another word with as much scorn. Thinking again, he decided he could.
“Officers,” he growled, then chuckled at his own wit.
A new sound caught his attention, a distant buzzing that he hadn’t heard in some time. His heart sank. He remembered that sound. He’d last heard it on that miserable retreat from Eindhoven in early June. He struggled to get out of bed, gritting his teeth and moaning in pain. By the time he’d made it to his feet, the buzzing was much louder. Knowing he didn’t have much time, he threw himself on the floor (with another yelp of pain), and slid under the bed. It may not be much of a hiding place, but at least it would keep his skull safe if the roof didn’t hold. In the back of his mind, he knew that, if the Krauts managed to cave the roof in, hiding under the bed would only delay the inevitable. He may not have his skull crushed, but he’d surely suffocate under the weight of the concrete.
“What are you doing?”
It took him a few seconds to realize the nurse was talking to him. She was standing in the middle of the room for all the world as though there were nothing wrong. Ryan shouted at her.
“Get down, damnit! You’re gonna get yourself killed!”
The nurse pursed her lips and set her hands on her hips. Not for the first time, Ryan would have swore she was a younger version of his mother. He’d thought that before, and it was probably why he was the only G.I. in the room who didn’t openly flirt with her. Snapping back to reality, he waved frantically at her and shouted again.
“C’mon, damnit, take cover! Incoming bombers! Can’t you hear them?!?”
The look on her face softened as she approached his bed. “Yes, Ryan, I hear them. They’re friendlies.”
Ryan shook his head violently. “No, they’re not. We don’t have air support yet, never have.”
“Settle down, soldier,” she purred soothingly. “They’re just now arriving. We’re within sight of an airfield, remember? You’re hearing American planes.”
Ryan stared at her a moment, not sure if she was serious or only humoring him. “Americans?”
“Yes, soldier. Wildcats and A-24s, just arrived from home.”
After a moment, he decided she was serious, and began sliding out from under the bed. As the adrenaline left his system, the pain in his leg returned. The nurse helped him back into bed, nodding off his apologies, then hurrying off to get him more pain medication. Ryan tried not to look at the other soldiers in the room, too embarrassed to try to explain. After a few minutes, one of them spoke up.
“Hey, buddy, just sos ya know, I thought it was Krauts, too. But I’m too busted up to move. But believe you me, if I coulda, I woulda done the same thing you did.” Several other soldiers muttered in agreement.
Ryan craned his nect, trying to find the soldier who’d spoken. He was four beds down the line, and from what Ryan could see, covered from head to toe in bandages. He didn’t know what to say. That guy was in a hell of a lot worse shape than he was. He didn’t know what his injuries were, but they didn’t look good. He tried to think of something profound to say, to let this guy know how much better he felt to know he hadn’t been the only one who was scared. He gave up with a sigh, saying only “Thanks.”
Over There!
Grumman F4F Wildcat
Douglas A-24 (SBD) Dauntless
6
August 17, 1940: Ryan tried his best to sleep, but since he spent most days on his back anyway, he wasn’t exactly tired. His leg hurt like hell, no matter what they gave him for the pain. The doctors kept telling him it wasn’t that bad, that in a couple weeks he’d be back on his feet, and back in the war if he wanted. He wasn’t all that eager to shoot at people again, unless, of course, he managed to find the son of a b###h who’d put a bullet through his calf. But even that wouldn’t help. That sniper was long dead, along with the machinegunner who’d done his best to turn him into Swiss cheese.
The hospital he was recovering in was in Brussels, well behind the front, but not so far that the sounds of battle couldn’t be heard. The noise was loudest in the southeast where the Krauts kept banging their heads against Allied positions around Namur. The sounds from the north were gone, or at least too faint to be heard. He hoped that meant the Franco-American offensive had been successful, or at least not a complete failure. He’d only participated in the fight for a few days before he got hit, but he’d seen enough to know the going was tough.
He'd also seen enough to be damn tired of hearing "Over There!" Some genius who'd probably never got his uniform dirty had apparently decided the troops needed a boost in moral. No matter where he put his boots in Europe, that Great War vintage marching song seemed to follow him, including the hospital. Ryan could think of plenty of things that would raise his morale, but never once had a marching song improved his mood. Eyeing the pretty Belgian nurses, however, tended to raise something that could be interpreted as his morale.
The newspapers all seemed to agree that Antwerp had indeed been retaken, but beyond that nobody seemed to know what was going on. Some said Amsterdam had been liberated, others said the Allies were still fighting in Rotterdam and Eindhoven. One paper even claimed French troops had crossed into Germany east of Arnhem. That report sounded dubious to Ryan. It had only been vastly superior numbers that had allowed his compatriots to grind the Krauts out of Antwerp. If the French had suddenly burst into Germany, he’d eat his helmet.
“Newspapers,” Ryan snorted. He doubted he could load another word with as much scorn. Thinking again, he decided he could.
“Officers,” he growled, then chuckled at his own wit.
A new sound caught his attention, a distant buzzing that he hadn’t heard in some time. His heart sank. He remembered that sound. He’d last heard it on that miserable retreat from Eindhoven in early June. He struggled to get out of bed, gritting his teeth and moaning in pain. By the time he’d made it to his feet, the buzzing was much louder. Knowing he didn’t have much time, he threw himself on the floor (with another yelp of pain), and slid under the bed. It may not be much of a hiding place, but at least it would keep his skull safe if the roof didn’t hold. In the back of his mind, he knew that, if the Krauts managed to cave the roof in, hiding under the bed would only delay the inevitable. He may not have his skull crushed, but he’d surely suffocate under the weight of the concrete.
“What are you doing?”
It took him a few seconds to realize the nurse was talking to him. She was standing in the middle of the room for all the world as though there were nothing wrong. Ryan shouted at her.
“Get down, damnit! You’re gonna get yourself killed!”
The nurse pursed her lips and set her hands on her hips. Not for the first time, Ryan would have swore she was a younger version of his mother. He’d thought that before, and it was probably why he was the only G.I. in the room who didn’t openly flirt with her. Snapping back to reality, he waved frantically at her and shouted again.
“C’mon, damnit, take cover! Incoming bombers! Can’t you hear them?!?”
The look on her face softened as she approached his bed. “Yes, Ryan, I hear them. They’re friendlies.”
Ryan shook his head violently. “No, they’re not. We don’t have air support yet, never have.”
“Settle down, soldier,” she purred soothingly. “They’re just now arriving. We’re within sight of an airfield, remember? You’re hearing American planes.”
Ryan stared at her a moment, not sure if she was serious or only humoring him. “Americans?”
“Yes, soldier. Wildcats and A-24s, just arrived from home.”
After a moment, he decided she was serious, and began sliding out from under the bed. As the adrenaline left his system, the pain in his leg returned. The nurse helped him back into bed, nodding off his apologies, then hurrying off to get him more pain medication. Ryan tried not to look at the other soldiers in the room, too embarrassed to try to explain. After a few minutes, one of them spoke up.
“Hey, buddy, just sos ya know, I thought it was Krauts, too. But I’m too busted up to move. But believe you me, if I coulda, I woulda done the same thing you did.” Several other soldiers muttered in agreement.
Ryan craned his nect, trying to find the soldier who’d spoken. He was four beds down the line, and from what Ryan could see, covered from head to toe in bandages. He didn’t know what to say. That guy was in a hell of a lot worse shape than he was. He didn’t know what his injuries were, but they didn’t look good. He tried to think of something profound to say, to let this guy know how much better he felt to know he hadn’t been the only one who was scared. He gave up with a sigh, saying only “Thanks.”
Over There!
Grumman F4F Wildcat
Douglas A-24 (SBD) Dauntless
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General Dayan said:
Forgive the ignorance, I fee like I should know this, but who is George M. Cohan?
invertigo2004 said:
Great American songwriter- "Grand Old Flag", "I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy", "Give my Regards to Broadway", "Over There". Literally born on the fourth of July. First songwriter awarded a congressional medal for his songs in WWI. Played bt James Cagney in th 1942 classic, "Yankee Doodle Dandy", which Cohan himself saw just weeks before his death.
Cohan was Irish, not Jewish as some people think. One time he had a reservation cancelled at a prestigious hotel because the management thought he was Jewish. "Apparently, we were both mistaken," said Cohan, "you thought I was Jewish, and I thought you were gentlemen".
Another excellent update. What has your strategy been with respect to researching TAC vs. CAS?
A real nice AAR, especially for a first timer! And yeah, the pictures are working fine
To all those who have questions about my strategy: 1. Keep them coming, you give me ideas for the AAR. 2. Given that, please don't be offended if I don't answer right away...the answer will be in the story.
Rich-Love: You read my mind, my next update will deal with the USAAF.
Evans: Thanks for the props!
InVert
Rich-Love: You read my mind, my next update will deal with the USAAF.
Evans: Thanks for the props!
InVert