Jumpstarting the American Century: USA 1936 AAR

[Prufrock451]

Speaking of strategy, you seem to be well-positioned for a couple of envelopments, especially that stack sitting in Amsterdam.

Have you tried cutting off any German troops, instead of a steady push forward on all fronts?

[invertigo2004]

First: As I add more and more to my AAR, I'm beginning to learn a few things, as I'm sure you can tell. One of the things that I've been slow to realize, however, is how small this print really is. However, this could be because of my own display settings. So should I enlarge the font or leave it as it is? Also, if anybody has any other suggestions for how I can make my AAR easier to read, I welcome them all.

Second: Are there any characters who seem more interesting or boring than the others? Put more simply, who's your favorite character? This question is borne partly from idle curiosity, partly from my eagerness to keep you all entertained, and partly from pride of authorship.

Thank you to all who continue to read, and rest assured, I will continue to write.

Prufrock: Alas, I can't answer that question without giving away the storyline. Please, keep reading. Also, I noticed you and several others have written AARs on HoI games that have been altered (i.e. Roosevelt dying in '35). How do you do that?

[invertigo2004]

7

August 25, 1940: Scott Welch eased his foot onto the rudder pedal, guiding the A-20 Havoc back onto course. On windy days such as this, the Havoc tended to slip to port, and he didn’t feel much like getting lost over western Belgium today. No, today he and the rest of 2nd Squadron had an appointment in Holland. He glanced at his watch, and smirked. They had a special delivery for the Krauts, and he didn’t want to be late.

He’d only been in Europe for about a week, but he’d already decided he liked the place. The people were gracious, the food delicious, the beer plentiful, and the women...friendly. Another smirk crept onto his face. He’d been to confessional four times in his eight days on the continent. It would’ve been five, but of course, duty came first. He made a mental note to visit the base chaplain when he got back. In the meantime, the rosary wrapped around his wrist under his glove would have to do.

“Nice to have them along, ain’t it?” his copilot, a blonde, blue-eyed Minnesotan named Bill Groom, remarked. His voice was high pitched for a man, almost a falsetto. Scott wasn’t quite sure if that was natural or if the farm boy had received a few carefully aimed kicks from a mule. It was only after a few seconds of musing that Scott realized he had no idea what Bill was talking about.

“Have who along?”

“The Buffalos,” Bill said, pointing out the window past Scott’s head.

Sure enough, there were four of the stubby little fighters flying in formation alongside him. They buzzed by, then ahead of him, like short, fat shepherds leading their flock. Scott shook his head. They didn’t look like much, and from what he’d heard and what he’d been taught, they weren’t exactly a force to be reckoned with. He didn’t figure they’d be much help. He said as much to Bill.

“I’m not so sure about that, Cap. I heard there’s some Buffalo pilots in 1st Squadron that’s already Aces. Now I ain’t no fighter pilot, but seems to me you gotta be pretty good to get five of them 109s.”

“True enough, but the Krauts were fighting this war for most of a year before we jumped in. Our Buffalos, on the other hand, have never been in combat before. They’re as green as the sky is blue.”

“And them boys in the 1st were green when they got here, too. Now they’re Aces. That’s gotta count for somethin’.”

Bill had a point, and Scott nodded to show he saw it. In the few minutes of near silence ( two Wright Double Cyclone engines made for a noisy ride) that passed afterwards, Scott watched his copilot from the corner of his eye. You’d never know it by listening to him, but that farm boy was pretty smart. Of course, he had to be. Nobody became a pilot (even a copilot) by being anything but intelligent. It must’ve been the accent, that hint of a twang that just screamed Country. Scott shook his head. You just couldn’t tell about people.

An hour later, Scott was daydreaming once again of his week-long conquest of Europe, trying to remember names to go with the faces, knowing he never would, not caring anyway. Smiling, he realized he didn’t so much remember faces as he did other parts of the female anatomy. Again, he didn’t care. Bill’s gasp tugged him back to reality.

“Holy Sweet Jesus Christ in Heaven!” Bill hissed, his eyes this size of golf balls. Scott sat forward.

“What is it?”

But Bill didn’t need to show him. Through the windscreen, the sky that had previously been so blue was now suddenly filled with tall columns of black and gray smoke. Eindhoven was burning, the smoke billowing into the sky like blood into water. Squinting, Scott could see dozens of tiny dots that must have been fighters streaking through the columns, some bleeding smoke of their own. Occasionally, one or two would fall to the ground, exploding into orange-red blisters of light, adding their funeral pyres to the darkening sky. He blinked with the realization that those fighters weren’t Buffalos, but the Warhawks of Harmon’s 14th Squadron. Scott checked his watch, then thumbed the intercom.

“Pilot to Bombardier. What’s our time to target?” he snapped.

“Time to target is less than four minutes, Cap.”

Scott was both relieved and terrified at the same time: relieved that this mission would be over soon; terrified that it would end too soon. Already, black puffs were appearing on either side of his bomber, buffeting them with great waves of air. He cursed aloud when he remembered he hadn’t put on his flak jacket. He hadn’t thought he would need it.

“Bandits, 12 o’clock high!”

This time it was Bill’s turn to curse. Had he not been so terrified, Scott would have been impressed by his creative use of expletives. As it was, he did his best not to piss himself. Four Messerschmitts were diving onto the formation of Havocs like sharks into a school of fish.

“Son of a b###h! Where are those damn Buffalos?!?”

With his life now very much in their hands, Scott suddenly wasn’t so critical. He just wanted them between him and the Messerschmitts bearing down on the bombers. They did not disappoint, but they didn’t get between him and the 109s, either. Instead, they swooped in from the side, peppering the enemy fighters with .30 caliber bullets. Scott whooped when smoke poured from the first Kraut plane. Then the radio burst to life once again.

“Bandits, 2 o’clock level and 5 o’clock low!” The airman on the other end of the radio squawked, his voice cracking in fear.

Scott began rubbernecking. Sure enough, 109s were preparing to attack the formation from multiple angles. Sweat trickled down his back as he thumbed the intercom once more.

“Pilot to Bombardier. Christ, Tom, are we there yet?”

“One more minute, Cap!” Scott felt a twinge of envy at the calm in Tom’s voice. Hell, he was sitting in the glazed nose of the bomber. If he couldn’t see anything, no one could. So why didn’t he sound scared. Was he so engrossed in lining up on the target that he couldn’t see the hellish panorama around him?

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Bill howled. Scott turned just in time to see the nose of a 109 spitting fire at him. The enemy plane roared by so close Scott nearly lost control of the A-20 in the turbulence. Getting his bearings, he scanned the outside world once again. The formation had plunged headlong into a maelstrom of smoke, fire, and fighters. Buffalos, Warhawks, and Messerschmitts screamed, swooped, and zoomed at crazy angles, dealing death to each other while the Havocs thundered on.

“Bomb-bay doors open.” Tom stated for all the world as though this were a training exercise. “Target in sight.”

“Oh, thank God!” Bill hissed. Scott didn’t disagree.

“Bombs away!”

The plane bucked, then practically jumped several hundred feet higher, as though even the Havoc was glad to be rid of the 1,500 pounds of death it had been carrying. Eight thousand feet below, Scott thought, the Germans wouldn’t be so happy.

“Let’s get the hell out of here!” Tom screeched over the intercom. Apparently, the bombardier had decided to loose all pretense of calm.

Without bothering to answer, he banked the Havoc as steep as he dared, knowing the other pilots in his squadron were doing the same. Looking down, he saw bright fingers of flame and fresh plumes of smoke rising from what only moments before had been a German supply dump. A bolt of pride flickered in his heart for a moment, then faded. He’d let himself feel pride when he got himself and his crew safely back to Lille.

He let his eyes wander over the wreckage that had once been the city of Eindhoven. No matter where he looked, he saw either smoke or fire. Somewhere down there, German soldiers were hunting their American counterparts, trying to drive them out of the city for the second time. The official word was that the fighting had degenerated into brutal house-to-house brawling, the artillery practically useless. For a moment, Scott felt lucky to have joined the Air Force

Something zoomed across the city, skimming the rooftops. It flung a couple bombs into a building, then skittered off to the southwest. It took him a minute to realize the plane had been an American A-24. He’d practically forgotten that 3rd squadron was participating in the raid as well. He was about to point the dive bomber out to Bill when the radio interrupted once more.

“Bandits, six o’clock high!”

They both groaned. The Havoc shuddered as the dorsal turret behind the wings began to thump. Scott prayed for the gunner, a Virginian named (of all things) Lee, to fend them off, then began searching the sky for Buffalos or Warhawks swooping to his rescue. His heart sank when he saw none. The Havoc shook violently as shells from the 109s slammed into it. Smoke and fire began to belch from the starboard engine. The enemy fighters shot past with a roar.

“Cut fuel! Feather prop!” He shouted at Bill, then thumbed the intercom. “Everybody out!”

Tom’s voice came back, acknowledging the order to bail out. Nothing came from Lee, and Scott realized the dorsal turret was no longer firing. Struggling to keep the plane level, he turned to order Bill out. He froze. Bill was slumped forward in his seat, blood pouring from a gaping wound in his neck.

“Oh, God,” he whispered. Bill was dead. He’d never cut the fuel. He’d never feathered the prop. Scott turned to his left just in time for the burning engine to explode in his face.

Standard Tactical Squadron, 1940 * Standard Fighter Squadron, 1940 * Standard Close Air Support Squadron, 1940


Douglas A-20 Havoc


Curtiss P-40 Warhawk

[anonymous4401]

Is this 1.0, or did you alter the four-plane stack cap?

Great update and excellent writing. I wish I could write like that...

[invertigo2004]

Is this 1.0, or did you alter the four-plane stack cap?

Great update and excellent writing. I wish I could write like that...

It's 1.0. I started the game before I downloaded the patch. I think the fact that enemy AI stacks their planes even higher balances things out though.

[Prufrock451]

Well, Roosevelt didn't die in mine; he just wasn't re-elected.

[invertigo2004]

Well, Roosevelt didn't die in mine; he just wasn't re-elected.

sorry, i must've been reading someone else's AAR. I thought it was your "To Stand Against the Night," but I guess not. My apologies.

[Prufrock451]

Oh, I wrote TSATN (see sig).

But Roosevelt suffers a stroke in 1936. He doesn't die.

You know, now that I think about it, I never said when Roosevelt dies... let's call it mid-38.

[invertigo2004]

8

September 6, 1940: Travis Bernard wanted to knock this joker flat on his can. He wanted to send him skidding down the bar, smashing everybody’s drink with his head, just like in the movies. He wanted to stand over him, shake his fist, and demand melodramatically that the hooligan never walk into this pub again. He would have done all that, too, if he wasn’t seeing double. He would have at least tried to do all that if only he could stand. Instead, he laughed off the insult, and knocked back another whiskey. His buddies, equally ready to fight and equally drunk, laughed with him.

“Seriously, yanks, I mean no disrespect, but how do you fly those things without pissing yourself?”

What otherwise would have been an insult was now, thanks to hours of alcohol, the funniest thing he’d ever heard in his life. Travis turned his bleary eyes away from his empty glass to look at the English pilot.

“Well, first, ya flip this switch, and then the propeller starts to spin. After that, it’s a piece of cake.” That earned another bout of soaked snickering. The Englishman, being significantly more sober than his American compatriots, smiled patiently.

“It’s not as bad as they say, y’know,” Frank mumbled rather mushily, but clear enough for the Englishman to understand. “Ya just gotta know how to use what ya got.”

The impish grin on his face betrayed the madness behind the method. The drunk pilots cackled together once more. Frank emptied his mug, then nearly fell out of his chair as he tried to stand. Muttering something about a weasel, he stumbled off in the direction of the restroom. In the meantime, Travis had determined to give the Brit a piece of his mind. That is, of course, if there was enough left that he wouldn’t miss a piece.

“All right, Leftenant.” He purposefully exaggerated the F, as though reminding the man he was English would rile him. “I’ll tell ya how it is. See, the Buffalo isn’t what you’d call graceful, and from all I’ve seen, it can’t hold a candle to that Spitfire you boys fly.”

The Englishman smirked. Travis wasn’t sure if the alcohol was playing tricks with his eyes, but he swore the man looked smug.

“But see, it doesn’t matter if the Spitfire or the Hurricane are better than the Buffalo. What matters is that all three are good enough to kill Messerschmitts.”

By the look on his face, the English pilot thought the idea that a Buffalo could kill a Messerschmitt was a dubious notion. Rather than press his point, and possibly start yet another argument, he simply shrugged the whole thing off.

“You wanna know what else matters, mac?” Travis slurred. The Englishman leaned forward. Frank slumped back into his chair, a look of supreme relief upon his face

“We got men over there fighting and you don’t. So you can take your Hurricanes and Spitfires and stick ‘em up your ass, for all I care. Till you limeys get some boots on the ground, what you can do in the air don’t matter a damn.”

The table fell into a tense silence. The Englishmen glared at Travis, who did his best to glare back. An all out brawl was only averted by the timely arrival of the barmaid.

“Can I get you yanks anything more? Oh, pardon me, Leftenant.”

“Of course,” the Englishman bit out. “I think I’ve had enough for the night, thank you.” He stood and dropped a few coins on the table. The American pilots eyed him as steadily as was possible until he had left the pub, then turned back to their empty mugs. The barmaid spoke again.

“Anything more?”

“How ‘bout another round,” Frank offered. When no one objected, he nodded to the barmaid and she sauntered off. He turned to Travis.

“What was that all about?”

Travis stared at him numbly, not quite understanding what he was talking about. Then his short-term memory returned. “Oh, the Brit?” Frank nodded.

“Well, hell, you know damn well what I was talkin’ about. This guy comes in here full of opinions on our planes and how bad they are when his people haven’t done much more than drop bombs on cities and sink a few ships. Meanwhile, our guys are slugging it out with the Krauts house by house. Have you seen the casualty reports? It didn’t seem right for him to criticize us with all that goin’ on. I didn’t care to hear what he had to say, so I decided to return the favor and tell him somethin’ he didn’t wanna hear.”

Frank eyed him. Even full of booze, the man had a sharp mind. He knew there was more to the outburst than that. He said as much.

“Where’s your brother, Trav?”

That earned him a hard glare. It would have been harder, but for the whiskey. The barmaid suddenly appeared with some beer to soften it further. After a few healthy gulps, Travis finally answered the question.

“Which one?”

“Either.”

“Tim’s in 9th Infantry, 1st Corps.” He took another pull from his beer.

One of the other pilots whistled. “Right in the thick of it, eh? I hear Eindhoven’s a near hell on earth. Is he O.K.?”

“Shut up, Fred,” Frank snapped.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Travis said. “Last letter I got, he was in Belgium. That was mid-July. We all know 1st Corps is in Eindhoven now.”

“And Troy?”

“I dunno. Haven’t heard from him. Don’t even know if he joined the Army, Mom didn’t say.”

A few seconds of silence passed. Travis took another long gulp from his beer.

“I suppose I owe that fella an apology.”

Supermarine Spitfire Mk.II


Hawker Hurricane Mk.II


* * *

September 27, 1940: Roosevelt hardly noticed the false smile he pasted onto his face day in and day out. What he did notice was the tired muscles and the headaches. He also noticed the line of foreign and domestic dignitaries never seemed to end, nor did their thinly veiled requests. Snorting, Roosevelt reminded himself some of those requests had not been even thinly veiled. They’d been thrown out on the table like a hand of poker, assuming they always had the upper hand. He snorted again. He was the president of the United States. If that didn’t give him the upper hand, what did?

He had the answer to that on his desk in the form of a report on the battle currently raging for Eindhoven. The upper hand would lie with the side who controlled that city and it’s river crossing. American troops had sent the Germans scurrying out of the city at the end of May. Roosevelt sighed. He’d known then the moment would be fleeting, that the AEF simply wasn’t large enough to hold the city or do much more than stall the German advance. Sure enough, they’d come back in force, and in short order, Eindhoven had again fallen, the American divisions falling back into Belgium.

The AEF had grown since then, from 12 to 48 divisions. They’d managed to keep the Germans out of Belgium. For the most part, he corrected himself. Antwerp had fallen at the end of June. In late July, he’d been convinced by his generals and the French Prime Minister that major gains could be made in Holland. Those hopes had proven ill-founded. The Germans may have been bogged down, but they were anything but beaten. On the contrary, they quickly recovered after being expelled from Antwerp. They skillfully parried the French thrust, causing heavy casualties and funneling them into the killing zones of Eindhoven and Rotterdam. In response, the American units committed to the offensive were thrown in pell mell, and if this report was correct, an entire infantry corps had jumped into the fray without orders. It wasn’t enough however. For the moment, the Germans still held the river crossing. That gave them the upper hand.

Roosevelt rubbed his tired eyes. The failure of the Franco-American offensive wasn’t precisely a disaster, but it did little to endear the people of Holland to the American Expeditionary Force. He’d seen the newsreels from the front. Rotterdam was a smoking wreck, and Eindhoven...he sighed loudly. Now that was a disaster. The city – if it could even be called a city anymore – was little more than a smouldering pile of rubble. Where Rotterdam was heavily damaged, Eindhoven was utterly destroyed. Few buildings were untouched by fire, and even fewer had all four walls intact. He’d heard the fighting had spread to the sewers, and that the Germans had nicknamed the battle “the war of the rats.” Little wonder the Dutch wanted little to do with the American soldiers who, while fighting to liberate them, smashed their cities.

Looking at the map, any other disasters would come from the menacing bulge in the Allied line in southern Belgium. A German breakthrough there would give the panzers an open corridor to the channel ports, cutting off the AEF and the bulk of the French Army. Even that wouldn’t be a total disaster. The Navy had swept the sea clean of German ships, and even those pesky U-boats hadn’t proved themselves to be more than a nuisance. Therefore, if the Germans broke through in the Ardennes, the AEF would simply fall back to Ghent, board their transports, and sail for Cherbourg or Le Havre. The front line would shift dramatically westward, but the war would be far from over.

“George, more coffee please.”

He rubbed his eyes again, this time shaking his head. No, the Germans wouldn’t break through in the Ardennes. He was surprised they had attacked there at all. Like most, Roosevelt had believed the heavily forested area impassable for tanks. The Germans had tossed that theory out the window, and had it not been for the timely arrival of the French Army, they may have done more than push a bloody bulge into the line.

Roosevelt smirked. Without the AEF, the French Army would have pushed right past the Ardennes into Belgium as it had planned. The German attack would have caught them by surprise, may even have broken through. He wondered if those foreign dignitaries ever thought of that. Probably not.

Shuffling through his reports, he also wondered when the British would decide to join the battle raging on the continent. There had been only talk of a British Expeditionary Force, and so far as he could tell, only the Royal Air Force and the Royal Navy had done any kind of fighting. He wondered if those dignitaries were hassling Neville Chamberlain as much as they hassled him. He hoped so.

Eindhoven in the Aftermath




* * *

October 11, 1940: Lieutenant Kyle West suddenly realized he was not dead. His first clue was the pain in his chest. He was pretty sure dead people didn’t feel pain. It was also a chore to breathe, which he wouldn’t be concerned about were he deceased. In addition, most of his senses were working. He could hear muffled voices and the occasional metallic squeal of a gurney. He could feel a slight, cool breeze playing along his cheek. He could smell the starch of clean linen and the slight sour smell of the sick. He could taste his own stale breath. Prying his eyes open, he could only see a blinding blur of light. He moaned.

The sharp clack of footsteps indicated he’d caught someone’s attention. Even before she spoke, the soft hands and sweet smell told him it was a woman.

“Ah, Lieutenant West, you’re awake!” Although her words indicated excitement, her voice was quiet and soothing. He tried to speak but his tongue wouldn’t cooperate.

“Thirsty?” the nurse asked. He did his best to nod. She poured him a cup of water, then cradled his head so he could drink. “Not so fast! Small sips only. You’re stomach isn’t ready for large gulps yet.”

His stomach? But it was his chest that hurt. He opened his eyes again, squinting and wincing in pain, but determined to look at her. He mumbled again, but could not speak. The nurse, however, was experienced, and knew he'd be wanting some answers.

“Do you remember what happened?” she asked. He shook his head no.

“You were hit by shrapnel from an artillery shell. One piece lodged in your chest, very close to your heart. It was removed, but part of your left lung and two ribs from that side had to be removed as well. Your stomach was torn nearly in two, and the doctor was not able to fully repair the damage. You’re going to have to get used to eating and drinking in very small amounts. Do you understand me?”

He nodded again, this time very slowly. He remembered now what had happened. The Germans had attacked his line north on Bergen to get to their paratroopers in Trondheim. He’d been running up and down the line in between artillery barrages, making sure there were no gaps, making sure everyone was ready to fight. They’d varied the time between barrages, trying to lull the Americans out of their holes. Kyle had thought he had time to get to one more hole before the shelling started again. Grimacing in pain, he knew now how wrong he’d been.

The nurse said something about having to change dressings and left. Although her presence had been soothing, Kyle was somewhat relieved to have her go. Now that he was awake, the pain in his chest convinced him sleep was the best option. Try as he may, all he could do was stare at the ceiling or out the window. It looked cold, and Kyle thanked God he was in a warm building, in a warm bed, with warm blankets over him. He didn’t say anything to God about preferring not to be in a hospital. Things being as they were, he was just glad to be alive.

His head snapped back toward the window. Outside, large white flakes were beginning to fall, and the windows had begun to fog. Kyle searched his memory, trying to remember the date of his wounding. July-something. That was all he could remember. He looked out the window again. It was no blizzard, but it was definitely snow. But this is Norway, he reminded himself. Their winters probably start much earlier than ours. The thought did little to reassure him. He didn’t know anyplace in the northern hemisphere short of Siberia where the winters started in July. How long had he been unconscious?

The nurse sauntered back into the room. Kyle called him to her and asked how long he’d been there.

“Just over three months.”

“Three months!” he shouted. The effort drew sharps pangs of pain in his chest. “So what’s going on, then. Did the Germans break through?”

“If they’d have broken through, we wouldn’t be here, now would we.” She soothed, but Kyle could hear a tinge of impatience in her voice.

“So what happened?”

She cocked her head at him and pursed her lips, clearly annoyed. Obviously, he was keeping her from doing whatever else she had to do. Kyle didn’t care. He’d just pulled a Rip Van Winkle. He needed to know how things had turned out for his men. When she saw he was determined to know, she sighed, and began to speak.

“Your unit, 7th Corps, and the Norwegians held the Germans back. The Fallshirmjagers surrendered about a month ago. 41st Corps arrived not long after, and the Germans have been pushed back into a pocket around Bergen. Word is as soon as the Krauts here surrender, 7th and 41st are to be sent to the continent.” She shivered. “You’re lucky, you know. Most guys like you don’t ever wake up.” He nodded, and she went on. “You’re also lucky you won’t have to go to Eindhoven.”

“Why, what’s happening there?”

Replica of U.S. Army Field Hospital

[anonymous4401]

Wow. You're really good at this writing thing!

The Western Front sounds tenuous by your writing. Of course, this time the Germans don't have to be fighting the SU at the same time. How many divisions have the Germans, compared to the Allies?

[invertigo2004]

Wow. You're really good at this writing thing!

The Western Front sounds tenuous by your writing. Of course, this time the Germans don't have to be fighting the SU at the same time. How many divisions have the Germans, compared to the Allies?

Thanks!

Sorry it took so long for today's update, but I decided to finish the game first...but I'm still not done, and felt bad, so I took some time today to write some. I'm in August, '46 at the moment, so I had to go back to find the info you wanted.

Around October, 1940, the Germans had about 110 combat divisions, including 6 armored. Of the Allies, only the USA, France, Holland, Norway, and Belgium had troops on the ground, their strength was a total of about 150: France 70 (2 armored); USA 60 (0 armored); Norway 10 (0 armored);Belgium 6 (0 armored); Holland 4 (0 armored). In addition, (I may be stating the obvious here) the 10 Norwegian divisions did not fight in continental Europe, but only in Norway. With only 8 German divisions actually committed to conquering Norway, and 12 American divisions confronting them, that makes the continental numbers 102 German vs 128 Allied.

The reason (I believe) the fighting became bogged down is because the Allied troops were not of the same quality as their German counterparts. Only about half the French Army was Inf '39 (all of the AEF was). To make matters worse, the Germans had Inf '39, Pzkpw IIIs, and even some Inf '41. Thus the Allied preponderance of numbers was offset by the quality of the German units

[invertigo2004]

9

October 14, 1940: Roosevelt didn’t bother hiding his anger. He glared fiercely at Anthony Eden, England’s foreign minister, hardly believing what he had just heard. He wasn’t even sure how to reply (and was certain what he wanted to say would be grossly un-diplomatic), or what this would mean for future relations between Britain and the United States. He took a long drag from his cigarette, then stubbed it out violently. Eden, to his credit, seemed extremely saddened by his government’s position.

“So that’s it then?” Roosevelt snipped. “We can expect no help from the British Army?”

Eden nodded. “That is the current position of His Majesty’s government.”

Roosevelt shook his head. “I was under the impression that Prime Minister Churchill would reverse that policy. I must tell you I am saddened and disappointed by the decision.”

“As am I, Mr. President. However, given the numerical advantage we – the Allied armies – have over the Germans, the Prime Minister believes the deployment of any British troops to the continent will be an unnecessary risk, and will only cause more difficulties given the attitude of the French.”

Roosevelt could identify with Churchill there. He’d already had more than his share of spats with the French over how the war should be fought. They had a nasty habit of treating their allies as though they were silly little children, and that everything would be alright if only they would see the wisdom of allowing the glorious French to command their troops. Roosevelt understood the value of coordination and cooperation between the various Allied forces. He also understood that none of the Allies were interested in turning over the reigns of their forces in Europe to Paris. The notion was all the more ridiculous considering the morose defeatism of much of the French populace in the months before America joined the war. Glancing at a map of the front, he reminded himself that defeatism had not extended to the French Army, which had fought fiercely by all accounts. Perhaps the defeatism had been confined to the newspapers. In any event, it was long gone by now.

“Mr. Eden, I must ask you then, what precisely will the British Army be doing in the coming months?”

Eden blinked, apparently unprepared for such a question. After a few seconds, he answered.

“Well, Mr. President, the British Army will be doing many things, including deterring the Italians and the Japanese. In fact, although I hesitate to mention it, your own armament program, and it’s...ahem...scant attention to the defense of the Pacific, has compelled Prime Minister Churchill to deploy a significant portion of the Army to several of our possessions in the Far East.”

Again, Roosevelt glared. Churchill was willing to prolong the current war in order to prepare for some future struggle with the Japanese? Roosevelt shook his head. He’d thought he knew the man.

“If that is all, Mr. President, I’ll take my leave.” Roosevelt nodded, and Eden strode out of the room.

For a few seconds, Roosevelt brooded on this new bolt of bad news. But only for a few seconds. Soon, he was nose deep again in reports from his commanders in Europe. Most contained nothing unusual, just reports from the fighting in southern Holland and southeastern Belgium. Those that came from Holland were particularly saddening. The casualties there were sickeningly high, the cities and villages sucking in soldiers like a vortex of death. Each report confirmed the Germans were diabolically clever at disguising ambushes and funneling Allied troops into firing zones.

The reports also revealed that the Battle of Eindhoven, which filled the newsreels each day, had yielded surprisingly positive results. The Allied preponderance of numbers (even without the British) and the continuous Franco-American pressure on the city had sucked German reinforcements from their right flank anchored on Rotterdam. General McNair believed he could secure Rotterdam and possibly push the Germans out of Amsterdam with permission. General Craig’s positive response was in the next report.

Three hours and several hundred pieces of paper later, Roosevelt’s head throbbed. In only two weeks time, the people would go to the polls to tell him whether or not he could keep his job. Odds were he'd be re-elected. The Republicans had tried, but by all accounts hadn't made much of a dent in his chances. Would he win by a landslide? No. Losses in Europe were depressingly high, and all he had to show for it was a stalled German attack and several Dutch cities smashed beyond recognition. The Republicans had a better chance than they might have otherwise. Nobody seemed to believe they had enough of a chance to win. He fervently hoped not.

Turning back to the reports, he determined to read one more before calling it a night. As he read, all thoughts of the election were swept away. He sent up a brief but heartfelt prayer of thanks, and then headed off to bed.

* * *

October 24, 1940: It was only on very rare occasions that Joel Kohn managed to get a view of more than empty ocean. Today was one of those occasions, but he wasn’t exactly sure of how he felt about it. A few miles distant, the city of Amsterdam smouldered, the occasional flash of fire punctuating an otherwise depressing scene. Any other time, he would have been happy to see anything but the dull grey of 5th Squadron’s battlewagons. But any other time he wouldn’t have seen a once beautiful city being pounded to rubble by his own ship’s guns.

The official story was that the infantry assaulting the city were under heavy fire from German artillery, and since the Army had decided to use self-propelled guns instead of standard artillery, they didn’t have anything heavy enough to hit back. Thus, 5th Squadron was taking turns with 8th Squadron, lobbing shells at German positions and, from all Joel could see, causing general havoc. The Air Force was supposed to be helping, but Joel hadn’t seen a single plane in the sky for hours. The fact that it was precisely his job to look for aircraft made their absence all the more glaring. Where someone else may miss a few planes sliding in and out, Joel would catch them almost without effort.

Joel sighed, relaxing a bit, but still keeping a sharp eye on the gray sky. He shook his head with the realization that today was the first day since the war began that the Nashville had unloaded its guns in anger. 5th Squadron had more than it’s share of scrapes with the Kriegsmarine, but never seemed to get close enough for the light cruisers to open fire, at least not on other ships. He wondered how the sailors on the Honolulu, Phoenix, and Boise felt about being little more than targets for enemy ships and planes. He snorted. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d fired his anti-aircraft guns at an actual enemy. It was months ago, during the endless patrols searching for German supply convoys on their way to Norway. It seemed like eons ago. He supposed the few surviving Krauts in Norway felt the same.

Thinking on it again, it was the superiority of American ships and sailors to their German counterparts that had made the last few months so...well...boring. He didn’t feel much like giving credit to the Royal Navy, although in the back of his mind he knew they had done most of the hard work against the Kriegsmarine. He’d had too many bad experiences in English pubs to convince him the Brits had anything but enmity for their American allies. Sighing, he caved in to reality. So the Royal Navy had broken their back. So what! It was the American Navy that smashed in their head! President Roosevelt wasn’t lying when he said the Germans had been driven from the seas. There hadn’t even been an alert in days. He supposed that was a good thing. In the meantime, he was bored out of his mind, and if these guns kept pounding, he’d be deaf to boot.

Joel squinted, trying to focus on what a second before had been only a tiny dot in the distant sky. As he’d suspected, the dot turned to dots, then clearly to a large formation of planes. He shivered. He’d never seen so many planes at once. And they were coming from the east. That meant they weren’t likely to be friendly. Anti-aircraft guns began to pound, but Joel had to wait. They weren’t quite in range yet.

The Nashville began maneuvering as wildly as it dared so close to shore, as did the rest of the capital ships in the 5th. Joel couldn’t see what was happening to the other ships, and for the moment he didn’t care. As soon as the Germans were within range, Joel unloaded, helping his compatriots to fill the sky with tracer fire.

Messerschmitts were swooping and strafing the ships while Dornier bombers bored in. Sweat began trickling down his neck and back despite the cold. He wondered angrily where the hell Fletcher and his carriers had wandered off to. For that matter, he wondered where the hell the Air Force was.

Blinding light burned his eyes, and Joel threw his arms up, screaming in pain. Something punched him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him, and throwing him bodily to the deck. Wincing in pain, he tried but couldn’t sit up. His head throbbed, and his chest felt heavy. Something wailed in the distance. He peeled his eyes open, but couldn’t force them to focus. The gray and blue blurrs swirled, then began to fade.

USS Nashville, October 20, 1940

The USS Nashville sails for the coast of Holland. The Light Cruisers Phoenix and Boise can be seen in the background.

USS Nashville, October 26, 1940

The Nashville limps back to port in Sheffield after taking damage from German bombers.

* * *

November 1, 1940: Ryan’s calf still complained when he walked, but he’d gotten used to it by now. He’d left the hospital for rehabilitation at the end of August, and after about two months of learning how to walk again, he hobbled through the shattered streets of Valkensvaard, looking for his unit. He’d skipped out on the replacement depot, not particularly interested in being shipped off to some other unit. He’d been in the 24th for four years now. He couldn’t imagine being with another division.

Looking around him, he wondered how much of his division – and of Valkensvaard – was left. The town was only a few miles south of Eindhoven, but it didn’t seem to have been spared the ferocity of that battle. He couldn’t see a single building intact, in fact, most of them were nothing more than empty, burnt-out shells. A slight breeze muffled the distant sounds of battle, but brought with it the sour scent of death.

Ryan was no stranger to that smell, but that made it no less unpleasant. He covered his mouth and nose with one gloved hand and trudged on toward a clump of soldiers. A few of them he recognized, but most were new faces. None of them payed him the slightest bit of attention. He picked out one he recognized and spoke.

“Hey, it’s Brown, isn’t it?”

The soldier eyed him. “That’s me.”

Ryan stood there for a second, expecting Brown to remember him. Instead, he just stared back blankly. His face was greasy with grime, but it couldn’t hide the jagged scar on his cheek. Ryan didn’t remember Brown having a scar, but he wasn’t exactly startled. He’d seen much, much worse at the hospital. From the look in his eyes, Brown had seen a great deal himself.

“Treynor, right?”

Ryan nodded, relieved to be more than just another pretty face. He knew he’d been gone awhile, and had by all reports missed most of the really bad fighting. Still, it wasn’t like he’d never fired a shot in anger.

“Yeah, I just got back. I’m lookin’ for Sergeant Baumer, you seen him?”

Brown pointed. Sure enough, there he was, stomping through the mud toward a building whose sole function now was providing shelter against the cold and the enemy. Ryan thanked Brown and the other soldiers, and trotted off after Baumer. His calf retaliated with several bolts of pain, but nothing he’d never felt before, and not nearly as bad as it had been even a week ago. Slowly but surely he was healing.

Instead of following Baumer, he decided to wait for him outside. He had no idea what, if anything, was inside, but he’d been in the Army long enough to learn you didn’t need to know more than you needed to know, and trying to find out more would earn you more trouble than it was worth. Besides, he’d spent more time outside in the last few days than he had in three months, which simply felt unnatural to him. He’d grown up the son of a fisherman, become a fisherman himself. Then he’d joined the Army. He hadn’t spent a great deal of time indoors in his whole life, now that he really thought about it. Nostalgia inspired him to take a deep draft of the outside air. He gagged a little, the smell of old death and open sewers reminding him this great outdoors would just as soon kill him as sooth him.

“Treynor, that you?” The voice wasn’t Baumer’s, but was nonetheless familiar. He turned to see Warren Emory sauntering up the street toward him.

“Hey, Warren.” Glancing around at the ruined town, he added, “Good to see you.”

“Yeah, you too. We thought for a while you’d been shipped off to another unit. You still nursing that scratch?” He smirked at his own wit.

“Not anymore, I figure it’s about time I got back to work,” he quipped. “Speaking of which, what’s the word? The way the newsreels blare on about Eindhoven you’d think the whole damn world was fighting for it.”

Warren’s face darkened for a moment. “That’s not too far from the truth. It’s bad, real bad. And it’s not just Eindhoven, as you can see. This whole part of the country is a complete wreck.” He glanced over at Brown and the unfamiliar soldiers clustered around him. “And if you hadn’t noticed already, this kind of work is pretty damn expensive.”

Thumping footsteps interrupted the melancholy exchange. Sergeant Baumer emerged from the doorway (Ryan noticed for the first time there was no door), and stopped to light up a smoke. Ryan turned to get his attention, but true to form, the sergeant seemed to have eyes in the back of his head.

“Treynor, good to have you back. How’s the leg?”

“Fine, sir. Just fine.” A twinge if annoyance flashed across his face. Although he hadn’t done anything overtly despicable, Baumer had used Ryan as bait to pin down that sniper in Antwerp. In the back of his mind, he knew the Sergeant hadn’t picked him for any reasons other than practicality. Besides, they’d gotten the sniper and the machinegunner, so in a rather painful way, he’d been right. Plus, Baumer didn’t seem to care about how long he’d been gone. All in all, none of that made Ryan feel a great deal better about having been shot.

“Good, come with me.”

Ryan waved to Warren, and trudged off behind Baumer. Neither man spoke for several minutes. Baumer had never really been the type to jabber away for no reason anyway, and Ryan wasn’t exactly in the mood to do so himself. In a way, the silence was somewhat reassuring, a signal that things were returning to normal. Well, normal for an infantry unit in wartime. To his great surprise, the Sergeant suddenly broke the silence.

“I’m gonna give you to 1st Platoon. They need fresh bodies the most. They’re set up just over there.” He pointed to a church which, remarkably, appeared undamaged. Ryan doubted that was divine intervention, however. He’d seen plenty of demolished churches between here and Brussels. Baumer spoke again.

“If you haven’t figured it out, yet, we’re in reserve. The real fight is a couple miles up the road in Eindhoven and Helmond.”

They stopped just outside the door of the church.

“Look, kid, don’t do anything stupid, alright? Just ‘cause this ain’t the front doesn’t mean you can’t find a way to get yourself killed. Besides, every once in a while, this is the front, capiche?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright.”

They stepped inside. Just as before, Ryan marveled at all the fresh faces. He didn’t recognize more than a handful of men. The rest must have been replacements. He scowled. That didn’t bode well for his survival. Taking another look around, he realized that, while unfamiliar, the new faces were anything but fresh. They looked tired and dazed, relieved and full of dread at the same time. He realized that a good deal of those new faces probably had more combat experience than he, even if they hadn’t been with the unit as long.

Baumer introduced him to the platoon sergeant, a man named Lambourne, then trudged off with the same stomping gait he’d apparently been born with. Ryan was given a bunk, and he set about making himself comfortable. Looking around, he realized that, while he recognized some faces, he really didn’t know anybody. He sighed, wondering if skipping the replacement depot had been such a good idea after all. He was just about to lay down (as if he hadn’t done enough of that in the last few months) when a distant rumble caught his attention.

“What the hell is that?” one of the not-so-new replacements asked. When nobody answered, he stalked toward the door to find out. Ryan and the rest of the men followed him. Outside, the sky was darkening, the sounds of battle to the north dying down a bit. The rumbling sound, however, was coming from the south.

“Bombers?” someone suggested.

“Nah, that ain’t planes,” another brushed him off. The rest of them nodded in agreement. They all knew what bombers, friendly or otherwise, sounded like. This was different. It wasn’t steady like aircraft engines, but seemed to pulse erratically. Maybe it was the wind, but Ryan could have sworn they sounded like the old diesel motor on his fishing boat. Then the wind shifted and the men caught a strong whiff of exhaust.

Their curious chatter turned tense. Someone pointed out it could be German tanks looping around behind them. That suggestion made the most sense to the men, and most ran back inside to arm themselves. Ryan stayed outside, unconvinced. He may not have been in the thick of the fighting for some time, but he knew for sure that the Germans had been stopped dead in their tracks all along the front. If those were German tanks exploiting a breakthrough, they’d have known they were coming at least. You just couldn’t smash a whole in either line and rush through it without creating a panic that would have spread to the other units in that line, including his own beloved 24th. No, whatever that sound was, it wasn’t Germans.

As the last of the men who had decided to get their guns were emerging from the church, they finally got their answer. Rumbling toward them in the twilight was a seemingly endless column of tanks. Some of the men remained convinced the Germans had surrounded them, even when it was pointed out that the lumbering beasts hadn’t fired a shot. When the men driving them proved to be Americans, every soldier in town put down their weapons and cheered them, rewarding them with beer and cigarettes.

“Nice ride you got there!” Ryan called to the tankers as they passed. The didn’t seem to hear him, but smiled and waved nevertheless. Ryan wondered if they realized how much their presence meant to these men. By their bewildered looks, they had no idea. Suddenly, Warren Emory bounded up beside him.

“Looks like you came back just in time!”

M3A1 Lee Medium Tank

[Evans]

Another great update, I can really picture what's going on Hurrah for the tanks! Let's see how Jerry stands up to their arrival.

[anonymous4401]

Yet another top-notch update!

[Brasidas]

Not to nitpick too much, but "Yes, sergeant." not "Yes, sir".

No "sirs" to noncoms.

[invertigo2004]

Not to nitpick too much, but "Yes, sergeant." not "Yes, sir".

No "sirs" to noncoms.

I'm aware of that, but I wanted to show that Baumer instills a great deal of respect in his men, so they treat him him differently than other non-coms. This will be more obvious later on. Unless I've made a mistake, the only other "sirs" are to the President and commissioned officers.

[invertigo2004]

Woohoo! I've finished the game, so I'll have more time to work finish this AAR, so for those of you reading regularly, look for more frequent and probably longer updates. I have to finish this quick because if this game is as addictive as its predecessor (and I already know it is), than very soon I'll be itching to start a new game. But don't worry, I'm enjoying the writing, and I'll try not to let the higher quantity of updates lower their quality. Thanx to all who are reading and commenting.

InVert

[Evans]

Woohoo! I've finished the game, so I'll have more time to work finish this AAR, so for those of you reading regularly, look for more frequent and probably longer updates. I have to finish this quick because if this game is as addictive as its predecessor (and I already know it is), than very soon I'll be itching to start a new game. But don't worry, I'm enjoying the writing, and I'll try not to let the higher quantity of updates lower their quality. Thanx to all who are reading and commenting.

InVert

Thanks for taking the time to write them

[invertigo2004]

10

November 17, 1940: Troy Bernard took another drag from his cigarette, hiding the glowing coal with his hand. The sun was just beginning to rise over what remained of Oss, but it was still dark enough for the bright red of a lit cigarette to catch the Krauts’ attention. It was no secret to the Germans that 1st Armored (the only armored division in the whole of the AEF) was in and around Oss. He knew as well as everybody else that there was no safe place in this town. German artillery and mortars had the whole place plotted, and more than one of his fellow tankers had discovered their Lees were no protection from a direct hit. They could, however, deflect bullets, and thus many tankers practically lived in their tin cans to hide from Kraut snipers.

A distant buzz drew his eyes skyward. It was still too dark to pick out the planes, but that didn’t really matter. The sound was coming from the southwest, so they had to be friendlies. Besides, the Luftwaffe didn’t seem to have a whole lot of fight left in them. The newsreels apparently had been right about the air battles over Holland that had raged through the summer and fall. Sure, the Germans had given as good as they’d got, but they didn’t have the planes or pilots to make up the losses. And those losses had been high. He’d seen the wrecks of too many Kraut planes to convince him otherwise.

Along with those German wrecks had been the burnt-out hulks of American planes. Some had been P-40s or A-20s, but most were Buffalos. A slight shiver ran down his spine. His brother flew one of those deathtraps out of England, escorting B-17s deep into Germany. Well, technically, that wasn’t true anymore. President Roosevelt had officially, but temporarily, called off the strategic bombing campaign. Supposedly, this was because “all targets within range have been eliminated.” Troy doubted the veracity of that, and of course, the Nazis were screaming “liar” at the top of their lungs. Travis hadn’t said as much in his last letter, but Troy got the idea that losses were simply getting too high. Whether those losses were due to flak or to enemy fighters, he couldn’t tell. Travis didn’t say, and his letters would have been cut to pieces if he had. In any case, 1st Squadron was grounded for the time being. That didn’t bother him too much. Whatever kept his little brother safe was just fine with him.

Troy shook his head with a wry smile. Yeah, technically, Travis was his little brother, and so was Tim. But both had gone off to war long before he had. Hell, Travis had been in the Air Force for most of a year before the U.S. even joined the war, and Tim had joined the Army in 1937. Neither of them had any reason to stay home, and both had fallen for that “Small World” Disney garbage. Troy had listened to his mother (and his heart) and stayed home with his wife and two sons. He and his father had done their best to keep the farm in business. It hadn’t been easy, but the farm was still in the black when America jumped into the fire last March. He finally joined the Army after federal subsidies and the shame in his father’s eyes convinced him he could no longer stay home and turn dirt while his little brothers were in danger. So here he was, a tank driver with 1st Armored, hunkered down behind his tank, chugging on a cigarette, preferring tobacco smoke to the smell of dust and old death.

Travis had managed to make a name for himself as well, or so he’d heard. He was one of 1st Squadron’s aces, one of those “flyboys” that most G.I.s griped about nonstop. Troy understood why his fellow soldiers had it in for the fliers. For one thing, they didn’t have to worry about artillery, mortars, or snipers killing them while they slept or ate. They didn’t have to sleep in the mud or in their planes every night. They didn’t have to worry about when they’d get their next hot meal. And worst of all, they flew and fought from their airbases in the rear, which meant they were where the women were, and the women just loved them. And why not? They were young, they were clean, and they were there.

The sound of boots crunching in the rubble-filled street jarred him out of the sleep he didn’t know he was in. He dropped the cigarette with a gasp of pain. He’d managed to doze off, and like an idiot, burn his hand. Trying to shake the pain away, he looked up to see Phil Deters, his tank’s 37mm gunner, trotting toward him. He started to stand, then remembering the snipers, decided to let Phil come to him. He flopped down next to him a few seconds later.

“What’s the word,” Troy asked.

“We’re to get some chow if we can, then load up. Division’s movin’ out today, gonna turn the town over to some boys from 9th Infantry.”

Had he been a dog, he’d have cocked his head and started wagging his tail. “9th Infantry? My brother’s part of that outfit.”

“The flyboy?”

“Nah, the other one. Tim.”

“Ah,” Phil nodded. “Maybe we’ll hang around long enough for you to find him.”

“Maybe.”

The sharp crack of a rifle echoed through the shattered city, earning startled jerks from both of them. Someone began frantically screaming for a medic. Troy sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. If the sniper managed to line up a shot good enough to take, odds were the medic wouldn’t do that poor soul much good.

“F###ing snipers,” Phil growled. “The sooner we leave this s###hole, the better.”

Troy nodded, but said nothing. He might be leaving this bulls-eye of a town, but he wouldn’t, couldn’t feel good about that. For one thing, wherever they were going, it wasn’t likely to anyplace fun. These were the only American tanks on the continent, and they went where the infantry needed the most help, which meant they went where the fighting was heaviest. For another thing, it would now be his brother’s turn to survive all the artillery, mortars, and snipers.

He’d seen what snipers could do to the unwary, and it wasn’t pretty. The lucky ones were the ones who’d been sitting still. They died quick, before the report of the rifle could reach their ears, without the knowledge that they’d just spoken their last words. The unlucky ones were the ones hit on the move. They usually took their wounds in the chest or stomach, and they wailed and flailed blood all over the place before sinking into that dreadfully final silence. They knew they were dying, and that nobody could help them. They died slow, with blood in their mouth, tears in their eyes, and their mothers on their minds. It was a hell of a way to go, and it was damn hard to watch.

As bad as it was, death-by-sniper seemed better to him than burning alive in a tin coffin. The Germans may not have had any tanks nearby with which to oppose the Lees, but that didn’t make them invincible. The Krauts had plenty of anti-tank guns in position in front of Oss. Most of them were 5cm PaK38s, which were bad enough, but every once in awhile a column of tanks would blunder into a 75. It would woof from the trees, a Lee would burst into flames, the crew (those who were still alive, at least) would bail out, and the rest of the company would bang away at the foliage while they waited for the infantry. Sometimes the Krauts pulled back, happy with their kill, not eager to press their luck further. Sometimes, they stayed and fought. If they stayed, they died, but they usually took a few more Lees with them. Then the engineers would come up, push the dead tanks out of the way, and the column would trudge on into the next ambush.

“Hell of a way to fight a war,” he muttered.

“What’s that?”

He turned to Phil, shaking his head. “Nothin’.”

“Well, I dunno about you, but I’m starvin.”

Troy nodded. “Me, too. Let’s go.”

They ducked and dodged and picked their way through the rubble, following the faint but tell-tale smell of bad cooking. After a few minutes, the began to hear hushed but eager forces, and the clanking of tin cups. The line was long, but the food was foul, so Troy figured that evened things out. He ate with gusto anyway, then rinsed his mess kit with cold water. Phil finished only seconds behind him. Troy waved to the rest of his crew. They’d assembled just outside, milling around the relatively safe alley behind the building currently acting as a mess hall.

“Hey, Bernard, where ya been?”

“Just havin’ a smoke. Enjoying the view.”

They nodded, and went back to talking amongst themselves. They were all 18 or 19 years old, and they treated him like an old man. That always grated on him. He was only 25, for God’s sake. It wasn’t as though his hair was about to turn gray. Well, not from age, at least. Besides, he wasn’t as...active...as the rest of them, particularly when they were lucky enough to get a weekend pass (which, he reminded himself, hadn’t happened since they’d crossed the Atlantic). They liked to hop from bar to bar, flirting with the waitresses, doing more with the hookers, and raising general hell. He had a family at home, and his reluctance to do as they did earned him a stodgy reputation. It distanced him from the rest of his crew.

“Hey, Troy!”

The voice was familiar, more so than the buddies he’d made in the Army over the last six months. He knew that voice better than that of his wife and two boys. He’d know that voice anywhere. Long before he could see him, he began shouting “Tim!”

He’d just spotted his little brother when the artillery began to fall.

M3 Lees in Position Around Oss, November 1940


German 7.5cm PaK40 Anti-Tank Gun

This gun was captured by elements of 5th Infantry Division securing the Dutch town of Venray, November 30, 1940

* * *

November 27, 1940: Ryan shivered, unsure if it was the cold or the exhilaration of being in Paris and alive. And, he reminded himself, freshly laid. He scratched at himself, wondering if he’d gotten more than simply laid. These French whores were beautiful and...talented, but with so many soldiers in town, he doubted their cleanliness as much as their godliness. He drove that thought from his mind with memories of soft skin and sweet smells. Whatever problems he may have in the next few days were worth the few moments of release.

He and a few other fellas from his squad were working on making the most of the last precious hours of freedom they had left. At the moment, however, they were resting, sitting at a café, drinking fresh coffee and eating soft bread and cheese. They’d seen everything in Paris they possibly could, but there was simply too much for a 48 hour pass to cover, and he was exhausted. By sundown, they’d have to report back to the train that would cart them back to the battlefields of Holland. They’d only been away from the front for a day and a half, but it felt like a lifetime. He tried not to think that by morning, he’d be in Holland again.

No matter how he tried, however, couldn’t keep his thoughts from the front. It didn’t help that every newspaper talked about nothing else. That made sense, of course. What was more important than the war? Still, Ryan would have been glad to see an article about streetcars, or how pigeons were taking over the city.

The papers were all screaming about something happening in Holland. Big surprise there, he thought. There’s been something happening in Holland for over seven months now. Whatever it was, he figured it had something to do with that failed attack the Krauts had launched last week. They’d tried to coordinate an assault on southern Holland, aiming (or so it seemed) to retake Hertogenbosch and Eindhoven. He was no general, but even he could see if the Germans had succeeded, the road to Dordrecht and Rotterdam would have been wide open, cutting off 23rd and 33rd Corps in Utrecht and Amsterdam.

They hadn’t succeeded, mostly because they were outnumbered and 1st Armored had dug itself into Oss tighter than a tick. The Lees weren’t much to look at, but when the other side doesn’t have any tanks, who cares what they look like? The Krauts had battered themselves senseless against the American defenses, and called the attack off within a few days. As far as Ryan had heard, they hadn’t budged the front an inch. In the meantime, 23rd Corps had secured the peninsula north of Amsterdam. Ryan nodded. Day by day, bit by bit, the Germans were being pushed back.

Of course, the best part of the whole ordeal was the arrival of 7th and 41st Corps from Norway. The fighting there had ended several weeks before, but with the surrender of so many Germans, they were still needed for security, at least until the POW ships arrived. Then, after a little wining and dining at the expense of the Norwegian government, they’d been shipped off to the continent. They’d arrived just in time to reinforce the American defenses. It was probably more their arrival than the tanks that had convinced the Krauts to call off the attack. In any case, with an extra 12 divisions on hand, lots of boys who’d been there since the beginning were finally getting some well-earned leave.

“Hey, Treynor!” Ryan looked up with a start, not realizing he’d dozed off. Warren and the rest of them were already halfway down the street.

“C’mon, we still got a few hours. Let’s go find some wine.”

Ryan chuckled. This was Paris. If they had to “find” wine, then America would need smarter soldiers to win this war. He trotted off to catch up with his buddies.

American Soldiers on Leave in Paris, November 1940


The Western Front, July - December, 1940


* * *

December 23, 1940: “Mr. President, General Marshall has arrived. They’re all here.”

“Thank you, George. Send them in.”

George disappeared, replaced a few seconds later by three men in uniform. First was General George C. Marshall, Chief of the Armed Forces as well as Chief of the Army. Second was Admiral Harold Stark, Chief of the Navy, followed by General Henry “Hap” Arnold, Chief of the Air Force. Despite their crisp uniforms, they all looked supremely exhausted. He couldn’t blame them. He hardly got any sleep himself, and they did more to run the war than he did. He waited for them to sit and for George to pour them coffee before beginning.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I apologize for the early hour of this meeting, but I’m sure you can all understand that my schedule, while differently comprised, is as demanding as yours.” They nodded in agreement. “Alright, then. All pleasantries having been concluded, where do we stand?”

The three men looked at each other for a moment, then Admiral Stark spoke up. “Well, sir, as far as the naval war goes, the short version is that it’s over and we’ve won. Supply convoys sail unfettered from Boston to Brest and beyond, and the Atlantic Fleet patrols the North Sea utterly unopposed. While intelligence reports that the Germans maintain significant levels of naval production, no matter what they build, we can sink it the minute it puts to sea, sometimes even before it leaves port.”

Roosevelt nodded. The Navy had done a fine job finishing the job the Royal Navy started. The newsreels loved to rub Hitler’s nose in the fact that no German ship had been seen at see for weeks. The best thing about it was Hitler had no way to prove them wrong. That didn’t stop his propaganda machine from pumping out lies, however.

“There is only one thing, Mr. President. The Pacific Fleet is, well, incomplete.”

“Not for long, Admiral. You are of course aware that the expected completion date for the first third of the fleet is this June.”

“Of course, sir, but in the meantime, our carriers and battleships sit idly at their moorings on the West Coast while the Jap navy sails unopposed.”

“We are not at war with the Japanese, Admiral.”

“No, sir, not yet.”

Roosevelt shot him a severe look. “Hopefully not ever, Admiral.” The look on Stark’s face betrayed his disbelief at that statement. Roosevelt went on. “You may rest assured I am well aware of the deteriorating situation in the Pacific. Nevertheless, our war is in the Atlantic, and despite our success there, I am not yet willing to transfer units out of the combat zone. It would be unwise to weaken our Atlantic Fleet when our Pacific Fleet will be ready for action by early summer. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, Mr. President.

“Good.” He turned to General Arnold. “And the Air Force?”

Arnold sat forward. “Well, sir, the current situation has it’s pros and cons. The good news is the Luftwaffe seems to have lost its offensive punch. Our P-40s have shot down so many Kraut bombers we’re not sure exactly how many are left. And, as Admiral Stark mentioned, with much of German industry concentrating on rebuilding the Kriegsmarine, replacements for the Luftwaffe appear to be few and far between. The bad news is whatever replacements they are getting are going to their interceptor squadrons.”

“Which means what, General?”

“Well, sir, you are already aware that the Messerschmitt 109 is a superior fighter even to our P-40s. To make matters worse, the Germans have deployed a few squadrons of new fighters, Focke-Wulf 190s. They’re faster, more maneuverable, and have a stronger punch. They’re taking a hell of a toll on our bombers. And the Buffalos...well, sir, the Buffalos could barely hold their own against the Messerschmitts. The 190s are slaughtering them.”

“Are we losing the air war, General?”

“Oh, no sir! Not at all. We still outnumber the Germans by at least 4 to 1, and we have complete air superiority over Holland. I take pride in the fact that the Army hasn’t seen an enemy bomber in weeks.” Arnold glanced at Marshall, who nodded in agreement. “But until we develop a better escort fighter, then we can only bomb within the range of the P-40s.”

“So you think we should suspend the strategic bombing campaign indefinitely?”

Arnold sighed. “I hate to say it, sir, but yes. The Krauts get more 190s every day. As they replace the Messerschmitts, our ability to protect the Fortresses will decline. They’ll be sitting ducks. Our only choice is to force the Luftwaffe to attack our strength, and that is over Holland. Suspending the strategic bombing campaign will remove whatever excuse they may have had to avoid this.”

Roosevelt sighed and scowled, but nodded in agreement. He wasn’t naive, he had never thought this would be a cakewalk. Nevertheless, this war required a great deal more patience than he’d envisioned. He looked at General Marshall.

“Well General, what do you have to say?”

“Mr. President, there is only one word for the status of the war, and that is stalemate,” General Marshall said sternly. “Despite our superiority in numbers, the Germans are more experienced, have better weapons, and are better trained. We pay so dearly for every foot of ground gained that we are often quickly thrown back by German counterattacks. When we do manage to hold, our troops suffer the constant attention of snipers and periodic artillery barrages.”

“Are the tanks no help?”

“They are of great worth where they can be found, but with only a single armored division on the continent, we cannot yet hope to force a breakout. The simple answer, sir, is that we need more tanks.”

“Something you’ve been telling me for the last month now, general,” Roosevelt snapped. “And for the last month I’ve been telling you that tank production has been stepped up considerably. Now I’m sure you are as aware as I am that 2nd Armored is at this very moment bound for Europe.”

“Mr. President, with all due respect, that will not be enough. The appearance of our tanks in Holland last month, while helpful, has not been decisive. German anti-tank defenses on our front have increased considerably, and I’ve received reports that several panzer divisions have been redeployed from the Ardennes salient to the Arnhem sector. If these reports are accurate, we’ll need at least six armored divisions just to break the Germans’ hold on Holland. I anticipate we’ll need twice that many to win the war.”

Roosevelt chewed on that (and his cigarette holder) for a few moments. “General Marshall, we are producing tanks at record rates, but it will still be at least May before we have twelve armored divisions. What do you propose we do until then?”

“What we’ve been doing since we joined the war. Hold the line, and kill Germans,” Marshall said simply. “Sir, we’ve embarrassed Hitler. We’ve stood in his way for six months now, and kept his armies out of France. Despite all our advantages of numbers and air power, he’s kept his armies on the offensive, and for what? He’s been driven out of Belgium and the western half of Holland at great cost.”

“We’ve paid rather highly ourselves, General.”

“Yes, sir, we have, but we are better able to make up our losses.”

“Are you suggesting we fight a war of attrition, General? That we forget all the lessons we’ve learned in the last three months and go back to fighting from trenches as we did in the last war?”

“Not at all, sir. What I am suggesting is that, until our armored forces are ready, we should hold our present positions. Unless, of course, an opportunity presents itself to us, we should let Hitler soften his armies up for us through his incessant desire to attack. We’ve seen his obsession with Eindhoven play itself out since August. He believes he can route the AEF by breaking through in that sector. I believe if we let him keep attacking, he will bleed his armies to death in that place.”

After a few moments of thought, Roosevelt nodded. “You are probably correct, General. No, you are undoubtedly correct. Very well. We shall await the completion of our armored divisions. In the meantime, General, I want you to draw up initial plans for the liberation of eastern Holland as a prelude to our general offensive later this summer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Admiral Stark, if you have not already done so, I would like you to draw up preliminary plans for naval operations against Italy. Mussolini has been rather loud lately, and we should be prepared for him to enter the war against us.”

“Mr. President, I have already taken the liberty of doing so. If you like, I can have a copy on your desk later this afternoon.”

Roosevelt nodded. Stark may be a pain in the neck, but he wasn’t stupid, or short-sighted. He just wanted to protect his boys. You couldn’t fault the man for that. He turned to Arnold again.

“General Arnold, I will do all that I can to get your boys some better fighters.”

“That’s all that I ask, Mr. President.”

“Very well. Thank you, gentlemen, that will be all.”

The three men saluted, and shuffled out into the hall. Roosevelt hardly had time to stretch before George poked his head through the door.

“Mr. President, Mr. Oppenheimer is here.”

“Send him in, George.”

Doctor Robert Oppenheimer strolled through the door. He looked as tired as his generals had been. He hoped that meant his results were more satisfactory than theirs had been.

“What can I do for you today, Robert?”

“Well, Mr. President, I believe today you should give me your assurances that you will cease your pursuit of atomic weapons.”

Roosevelt blinked in surprise. Oppenheimer’s face showed no hint of jest, only exhaustion tinted by sadness. “And why should I do that?”

“Because I have come to the conclusion that my previous conclusions were incorrect.”

“Which ones, Robert? That atomic weapons were possible, or that the Germans were ahead of us?”

“Possibly both, but definitely the latter. Mr. President, if you wish me to continue working on this project, then I must ask you who you intend to use these weapons on? Call me foolishly optimistic, but I do believe this war will be long over by the time we have a working bomb.” After a beat, he added “If that is even possible.”

Roosevelt stared at him for a moment, trying to decipher his motives. Whatever you wanted to say about the man, you could not deny his intelligence, or his common sense. He’d long ago decided that Oppenheimer was a man who could be trusted. He decided to trust him once more.

“Robert, what I tell you now, you must keep in absolute faith.” He waited for Oppenheimer to nod before going on. “These weapons – if they are possible – are, as you have made plain, not to be used against Germany. I hope they will never be used at all. However, given tensions in the Pacific, and the corrosive influence of the Soviet Union in the world, I believe the United States must acquire these weapons first, not to use them, but to deter others from using them.”

Oppenheimer sat silent for a moment, apparently pondering whether or not he believed him. Then he sat forward.

“Mr. President, I believe it would be in the best interest of the United States, and of the world, if we ceased all work on this project. The resources could certainly be better used elsewhere. And as for your worry that someone else will acquire them first...To be honest with you, sir, I find that notion laughable. No matter what Goebbels may say, Germany is running out of time. They certainly haven’t the time or money to dump into a project such as this. The Japanese are clever, but their war in China is too expensive to allow them to even contemplate research. And the Soviets...the Soviets are so far behind us that we could put off research until 1945, and still be years ahead of them.”

Roosevelt cocked his head. “Then I must ask you, Robert, if this weapon could give us any advantage at all, why should we not research it just because nobody else can afford it at the moment. To me, it appears the benefits far outweigh the risks.”

“Mr. President, if you acquire this weapon, then no matter what your principles, you will be tempted to use it. Nobody on Earth knows for sure how powerful such a weapon would be, or how dangerous. There are too many unknowns, Mr. President.”

Roosevelt folded his arms, clearly unconvinced. Robert went on.

“Mr. President, I have been made aware that our code-breaking ability at the moment is, well, pathetic.” Roosevelt scowled, but said nothing. “It would be wrong of me to work on a project I consider morally bankrupt when my talents can be used to help the Army win THIS war. In fact, upon completion of our current project, I will officially resign if you refuse to assign me to something else. Do I make myself clear?”

His voice, normally so calm had clear, had risen both in pitch and volume. As much as Roosevelt disagreed with him, he didn’t think he could convince him to change his mind. And what’s more, the man was probably right anyway. He was a genius, after all.

“I understand, Robert. Let’s cut a deal, then. We will halt all work on atomic technology for the time being, in favor of more, shall we say practical projects. However, you must promise me that you agree to resume work on this project no later than 1945. We don’t need nuclear weapons to defeat Germany, that is true. But we may need them against the Reds. Don’t you agree?”

Oppenheimer sighed, then nodded his head. “Yes, Mr. President. I agree. We have a deal.”

Focke-Wulf 190A

This particular plane has been fitted with a 250kg bomb. The attrition to German bombers over Holland was so severe that German fighters were forced to take on the job of ground support.

Victory in Norway, Stalemate in Europe


U.S. Production, December 1940


U.S. Research, December 1940

[Archangel85]

wow! What an update...