Jumpstarting the American Century, Part XIX: May-June, 1941
Here's that "rapidfire" I talked about. The next post will be a bit similar, but Lord Knows when I'll have a chance to get it up. Like I said, figure 1 post per week. Anyway, the next thing I'm working on is a Dramatis Personae, which will be edited into my first post (I'll let you all know when it's done so you don't miss it, but I want any new readers to be able to see it right away), then the OOB after that. Enjoy, and thanks for being so patient!
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19
May 21, 1941: 27km northeast of Hasselt, Belgium, northwest of the village of Gruitrode.
Lieutenant Kyle West sat quietly by himself, staring out over the lines at his men, a scowl scarring the taut skin of his face. They dug holes, stacked logs and branches for cover, set up machinegun nests, and otherwise dug in. None appeared too happy about it, but there hadn’t been any fights lately, so that had to count for something. It also seemed to indicate his men were finally warming to their British commanders, as they followed orders without a great deal of grousing. Kyle shook his head in sour amazement. He doubted he’d ever be more than dutifully polite to them.
Part of him was glad to have them here. After all, they’d replaced the American units that had orphaned them, marching into the darkness one night like drifters, never to be seen again. Kyle didn’t know how to feel about that. His regiment had been chosen to remain at the front, but no one had said why. They’d spent most of that first night cowering in basements, bedrooms, and attics, unsure of how the hell they were supposed to hold off the next attack, cursing the damn-fool generals who’d abandoned them. When the Brits arrived early the next morning, they were met at first with confusion, then cheers as realization struck. They hadn’t been abandoned. They were to form the nucleus of a new defense line so the thousands of inexperienced soldiers pouring into position would have some veterans to learn from. They quickly set to work showing the green men how to stay alive. The Brits learned quickly, even eagerly. Camaraderie was evident everywhere that first day, and Kyle even allowed himself to feel good about the queer situation for a moment. Then orders came down the line. The entire regiment had been officially folded into the British 3rd Infantry Division, commanded by Major General What’s His Name. Kyle hadn’t bothered listening to his name, or the names of countless other British officers who now were suddenly his superior. Whoever they were, he’d follow their orders, not because he wanted to, but because he had no other choice.
His men clearly felt the same way. There’d been more than the usual share of soldiers’ scuffles lately, and breaking them up was much more difficult than before, particularly since Kyle tended to take the side of his veterans rather than the cocky, green Brits. His boys resented the way some of the British officers lorded over them, as well, looking down their noses, refusing to engage in even the simplest of conversations. Of course, American officers weren’t supposed to fraternize with their soldiers either, but that didn’t stop them. In any case, it wasn’t the rudeness of the British officers that set the men off, it was their orders.
Those orders called for the rapid withdrawal from the village his men had fought so hard to take, and for the entire formation to fall back nearly three kilometers to the northwest to form a new line. When he asked why, his only answer was a hard stare and a confused look. Kyle snorted. F###ing Limeys. We take the damn town and they give it back without a fight. In my opinion, that warrants an explanation. But my opinion didn’t matter for s### with home grown officers, so why would it matters any more with these bastards?
He sighed loudly, sending a dark look eastward, toward the Germans. Whatever the brass were doing, his couldn’t afford to encourage insubordination in his men. They’d need these rookies to hold this godforsaken field against the SS. Nevermind the fact the damn Limeys hadn’t a single officer with combat experience. Nevermind the fact that all these veterans had to take orders from them. Nevermind the fact that all these men who had fought and bled for the last year suddenly weren’t even part of their own army anymore. He’d follow their orders because that’s what he did. Because the war wasn’t over, and in the end, did it really matter who gave him the orders? He shook his head. Damn right it does.
The British Expeditionary Force
The secret arrival of the British Expeditionary Force in Europe was, to put it lightly, an act of considerable skill, audacity, and risk. In totol, forty divisions, five of them armored, arrived via the ports of Rotterdam and Antwerp throughout the first three weeks of May. Initially, this massive operation was considered much too large to even contemplate secrecy, yet British officials convinced their American counterparts that it could be done. With the cooperation of the Dutch and Belgian governments, significant portions of the civilian populations of both Rotterdam and Antwerp were evacuated, and a considerable security zone was established, as was a strict curfew for those civilians who remained. Roads to the front were guarded as well, with orders to shoot any civilian who refused orders to turn back. Over their own vehement protests, British soldiers donned American uniforms, carried American weapons, and were under strict orders of silence for the duration of the voyage and march to the front. While they resented the temporary loss of their national identity, they resented the attitude of those Americans who remained at the front even more. Although glad for the chance to learn from their experience, the British chaffed at the American perception that they were “Johnny Come Latelys.” Fistfights were common through the middle weeks of May, and there are even a few documented shootings. These tensions subsided, however, as the June offensives approached. All in all, the combination of security and disguise succeeded in hiding the arrival of British troops for over two weeks, allowing the bulk of the BEF to move into position before the Germans had any notion they were there.
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May 23, 1941: Brumen, Occupied Holland.
Travis awoke with a start, head cocked like a dog, scouring the world for the sound that had jarred him awake. He heard nothing but his own shaken breathing. No planes, no boots, no distant artillery, no shuffling sounds from downstairs, nothing. The night was eerily silent. Sweat trickled from his forehead as he lay there, unmoving, listening to nothing, and fearing it.
He couldn’t remember the last time the world had been so quiet. He wasn’t in the habit of waking up at all hours of the night. This could be utterly normal, and I’d never know it. No. The front is silent. What’s happening? Why is there no fighting? Is the war over? What’s going on?
He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and stared out the small round window into the night. He couldn’t see much from the floor, but the sky was clear, milky moonlight casting blue-white shadows into the attic. He sat up slowly, getting his bearings, the last vestiges of sleep and dream dissolving. Then he remembered the dogs, the boots, the shouts. A nightmare, that’s all, he scolded himself. You’ve had a nightmare and you’re searching your room for ghosts like a child. He dug his fingers into his eyes as though he could pry the fear out of his head.
Nearly four months now, he thought. How many more? Please God, let me spend them here if I cannot fight. Protect me, Lord. Amen.
He’d never been a religious man before the war. But his first few missions convinced him of the truth behind the old maxim “there are no atheists in foxholes.” Considering he never knew a single flier to miss church, he figured there weren’t many atheists in cockpits, either. Even then, he’d never been one to pray outside of church, not even in combat. Looking out the window again, he nodded. Things were different now.
He stood carefully, quietly, stretching his back and legs. He stifled a moan of pleasure. He only risked standing every few days. The attic was small, and there was really no way to hide from prying eyes without laying or kneeling all the time. His joints ached and cracked. He let out small sighs of relief with each Pop, stretching luxuriously. He stood there a moment, looking out the window into the dark, empty street before quietly laying down again. His back ached in protest, and his arm twinged, but he just shrugged it off. With practiced ease, he fell quickly back to sleep.
The dogs and the guards and the shouts returned, chasing him through tall grass and short trees, over blue water and green fields. He passed people as he ran. They were watching him with blank, confused faces, unsure of what to do. He tried to scream, to beg them for help but his lungs held no air. He was helpless, mute and running, exhausted and drowning in fear. He fell, and they were upon him, barking and shouting and kicking him.
Bright pain coursed through his head. He screamed, his lungs suddenly full, the sound deafening and silent at once. He tried to open his eyes but the pain struck again. The shouts came again, searing his ears, but no dogs, just pain and noise. Something tugged at his arm, dragging him upright. He stood uneasily, swaying like a drunk. He opened his eyes to blinding light, willing them to focus. His mind struggled to clear as the dream gave way to the world, and a sneering face. The pain flashed again, blood filling his mouth, the copper taste snapping him finally awake. He tried to stand straight, but steel arms held him still.
“Hallo, Amerikaner.” The voice was perversely polite. He pried open his eyes again, forcing them to focus on the grayish blob before them. After a moment, he saw clearly enough that the man was Gestapo, and pointed a pistol at him.
Travis searched his burning head for something clever to say, but all he could manage was a weak “Hallo.”
The German smirked and barked, “Fortshaffen ihn!” He felt himself lifted bodily by the men holding his arms. They dragged him unceremoniously down the stairs and out into the street. Sunlight stabbed at his swollen eyes, adding to the masterpiece of pain in his head. A small crowd had gathered, but only stared, warily eyeing the smugly armed guards. A sedan waited for him to be tossed roughly inside. He moaned in pain, setting his swollen head against the cold glass, reveling in that small bit of relief. The engine sputtered noisily to life, and the car rumbled off. He passed out again, but not before he caught a glimpse of Lisette’s terrified face in the back of the sedan in front of him.
Early Lightning Strikes: F-4 1 LO Reconnaissance Lightning
Martin A-22 Maryland
As aircraft factories pumped out the last few Buffalos, the first Lightnings were delivered to American squadrons in Europe. However, these aircraft were not delivered to beleaguered fighter pilots endeavoring to protect A-20s, but to surprised reconnaissance squadrons. Intending to milk the new plane for all it was worth, Air Marshall Arnold determined the aircraft’s excellent high altitude performance made it the best candidate to replace the ailing Martin A-22 Marylands, which had proven easy prey for the Luftwaffe. The first Lightnings to come off the productions lines in early May, 1941, were specially equipped with a pair of K-17 aerial reconnaissance cameras. Literally within days, the first “Recon Lightning” mission was flown on May 26, 1941, by Lieutenant Ian Christian. The plane’s speed and maneuverability allowed the pilot to simply outfly his pursuers, leaving the Germans shocked and confused as he sped away with vital intelligence. Ironically, while the Germans were impressed with the Lightning’s performance, they assumed the plane had been specifically designed for reconnaissance. This mistake led to a great deal of confusion and unnecessary losses when the first armed Lightnings appeared at the end of June.
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May 28, 1941: 12 kilometers east of Oss, Holland.
The truck bumped noisily along, trailing stinking clouds of diesel exhaust. Troy did his best to keep from being thrown into the road, clinging white-knuckled to a crossbar, clutching his pack between his knees. A few other men road with him, struggling to hold on. Difficult as it was, some of those men were infantry, and apparently were accustomed to such shaky rides. He could pick the infantry out. They were smoking. The tankers (orphans like himself, survivors of dead tanks, dead crews) had burned themselves trying to light up in the heaving bed.
He tried to keep his thoughts on the road, but his mind wouldn’t cooperate. The image of Captain Russel’s ragged remains had seared itself into his brain like a scar. He saw it every time he closed his eyes, dreamed about it every time he slept. The body had quivered and jiggled, legs spasming and blood splashing. He’d spewed vomit all over it, adding a sour twinge to the iron stink of blood and bowel. Phil screeched in shock when he saw, then vomited himself. The crew panicked for a crucial second, Baxter and Mathers shouting into the intercom, unable to see the body, unsure and confused. Then the world exploded, the tank shuddering, smoke and sparks filling the interior. He’d fallen to the floor, face down in the blood, s###, and puke, his teeth digging painfully into his lips and cheek.
The truck lurched, swerving violently, tossing the men in the bed like rag dolls, snapping him back to reality. Even the infantry lost their grip, and their smokes, flailing wildly, howling in surprise and pain. Troy pulled himself back onto the bench with surprisingly little trouble, shouting something unseemly at the driver. Some of the words he used he’d never heard before joining the Army. Nevertheless, the driver either didn’t hear him, or didn’t give a damn. After a few more minutes of jostling, the brakes squealed, and the truck skidded to a halt. A couple tankers tumbled off the bench one last time, cursing as they picked themselves up. Troy stood on wobbly legs, then jumped to the ground, getting quickly out of the way before dropping his pack to stretch the cramps out of his back.
“Tankers over here! Infantry to the opposite side of the street!” A gruff voice bellowed at them from atop a stack of crates. Troy finished stretching and trotted over, eyeing the shouting captain. He was short and stocky with a short, jagged scar cutting through his face full of red whiskers. The other tankers joined him within seconds.
“Everybody here?” Troy counted five, including himself, the same number from the truck. The red-faced captain nodded, then went on. “Good. On behalf of General Collins, welcome to the 8th Armored Division, 45th Armored Corps. In case you haven’t heard yet, we’re the Thundering Herd. We’ve just got into the war, and we’re a bit shorthanded thanks to these f###ing snipers. That’s why you’re here. I’m Captain Scholtens. We don’t have a lot of time, and there’s more of you fellas comin’, so line up and you’ll be assigned to a crew.”
The captain hopped down to the ground and stalked off a few feet to a small cluster of men. Troy and the others followed him, falling into single file, waiting to be told what to do. He scanned his surroundings, squinting in the noon sun, taking in the layout of the land. Just a field, really, dotted with tents, makeshift huts, and a few clumps of trees. Not the front, but not far, he thought.
Scholtens snapped his head over his shoulder. “Any 75 gunners?”
One man raised his hand, nodding.
“Well, get over here.”
The gunner snatched up his pack and hustled over, following what Troy assumed to be his new captain off to his new rig.
“Radiomen?”
Another man raised his hand and was gone, marching off to join another crew. Troy shook his head, staring at the ground. He was like a cog, a spare part scavenged from his wrecked Lee, no different than a flywheel or a piece of track. He was a piece to a puzzle. Take the parts you need and throw out the rest. Don’t forget to wash off the blood and the stink, you f###ers.
“37 gunners?”
Phil had manned the 37. He was a kid, no more than 19, bright blue eyes and peach fuzz on his chin. Impatient as a child, but as calculating and lethal a gunner as he’d ever seen. The shell that killed Baxter and Mathers burned Phil’s legs up pretty bad, but he pulled Troy out of the muck, shoving him through the commander’s hatch, out into the battle. He saved his life, dragging him kicking and screaming to safety, holding him like an infant while he cried. And he was the one who found Captain Russel’s head half buried in the mud the next day, seconds before a Kraut sniper blew his head off.
“Loaders?”
Troy raised his head, wondering if he should raise his hand. Only he and one other were left. They stood there, motionless, staring. Scholtens stared back, the shook his head.
“S###.” He turned back to the group of tank commanders. “Sorry, Hal, no luck.”
“Sir,” Troy blurted. Hell, what am I doing? I only did it once! Well, can’t shut up now. “I’m a driver, but I spent some time as a 37 loader before I got hit.” His neck twinged where the sniper's bullet had cut its groove. Half an inch to the right, and he would’ve joined the rest of his crew.
Scholtens turned back toward the man named Hal, who nodded impatiently and waved him over. “Alright, then, move out.”
He hefted his pack and trotted off after Hal.
The Struggle to Replace the Lee
As the AEF prepared for operations Drake and Hatchet, its armored arms swelled from six to twelve divisions in just over a month. These tanks were all M3A3 Lees, which General Patton, commander of the 43rd Armored Corps, angrily referred to as “those damn backward cans.” Frustrated with their performance against German tanks, and galled by the clear superiority of British armor, Patton, along with his 44th Armored Corps counterpart General Courtney Hodges, urged Marshall to speed up work on the next model, the still experimental M4 Sherman. While the chassis of this tank had already proven suited to combat conditions in the T34 Calliope brigades, designers were still having problems mounting the short barreled 75mm cannon in a turret while maintaining the tank’s balance and fire accuracy. The pressure from combat commanders to get the tank in the field led to an early production run of M4A1s in June, 1941, all of which suffered from inaccurate fire and frequent breakdowns. These problems would not be completely overcome until February, 1942, after which the Sherman officially replaced the Lee as the United States’ primary battletank.
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May 29, 1941: Munster, Germany.
Field Marshall Gerd von Rundstedt pursed his lips, stifling his frustration. The Fuhrer stared smugly at him from across the table, a great map set out between them. The map was dotted with little flags, marking the front line as it stretched from the Swiss border to the North Sea. Shift those flags a couple dozen kilometers to the west, he thought bitterly, and you could hardly recognize this map from one of the Great War. And who’s fault is that? He glared back at Hitler.
“Mein Fuhrer, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
Hitler’s mustache twitched and his eyes darkened, though no scowl appeared on his face. “I have come to see for myself the condition of the troops and to determine why, after more than two months of fighting, you have not yet broken through to the coast.”
“Mein Fuhrer...”
“I’m not finished,” Hitler snapped, his eyes flashing. “I have also come to decide once and for all whether or not our little compromise is worth keeping, considering your failure here. Why should I leave the war to generals who have no will to fight?” His tenor was raised, his left arm shaking with barely contained rage. Rundstedt girded himself for another tantrum. “Why? You couldn’t smash the Americans a year ago when they were weak! You couldn’t smash them in April when you were strong! Why should I believe you can smash them now when the damned English have arrived?!”
He fumed, breathing loudly through his nose, eyes wide with anger. Rundstedt sat rigidly erect, his face blank, all contempt for the obergefreiter skillfully hidden behind his general’s mask. He let a few seconds of silence pass to be sure the little bastard was finished before he spoke.
“Mein Fuhrer, intelligence suggests that the arrival of the British has actually given us a better chance at breaking through than before. The Americans are heavily armed and experienced. They outnumber us in armor by about two to one, and in aircraft by more than four to one.” He suppressed the urge to lambaste Goering in front of Hitler. It may have been temporarily satisfying, but he doubted the wisdom of criticizing one of Hitler’s closest and oldest cronies, whether the fool deserved it or not. “But in terms of infantry, their strength has not changed since last autumn. We still count only sixty divisions...”
“How does this help us? You couldn’t break through those sixty divisions last year. What makes you think you can do it now?” The growl in his voice abated, and Rundstedt thought he even heard a little hope in there. He nearly smirked in satisfaction. Dangerous as he was, the Fuhrer would always listen if you gave him hope.
“But mein Fuhrer, we won’t have to break through those sixty divisions, because nearly all of them have been pulled out of the line, replaced by the inexperienced English. I didn’t believe it until I saw it myself, but the American divisions at the very point of our advance have been pulled back and replaced by units from the BEF.”
Hitler sat back, taking a deep, noisy breath. He let it out slowly, then said, “I never really believed those fools would stay out forever." He shook his head, muttering something Rundstedt couldn't here. He looked up again, scowling. "Go on.”
“While I have my suspicions as to what the Americans are up to, I believe we have a significant opportunity here. We have yet to find any signs of British armor or anti-tank guns, and from prisoners we’ve taken in recent raids, British artillery is much lighter than their American counterparts.”
“What about those wretched rocket launchers the Americans have. Where are they?”
“They departed with their divisions. Mein Fuhrer, the intelligence I have indicates the entire Allied line in my sector is held by troops who have never seen combat, have no armor, no anti-tank guns, no rocket artillery, and only sporadic deployments of light artillery. I have spoken to Feldmarschall von Kuchler, and he concurs that Allied deployments in his sector are of a similar nature. All together, we count only about forty such divisions.”
“Forty?” Hitler scowled, his forehead furrowed in thought. “So where are the Americans?”
“That question is more difficult to answer, Fuhrer. Although some divisions have remained in the Eindhoven sector, we are at the moment unsure of where the rest have gone. Aerial reconnaissance is difficult, verging on impossible at the moment.” Hitler’s mustache twitched again. “While I have no doubt of the courage of our brave pilots, the simple fact of the matter is I haven’t received any intelligence from aerial reconnaissance in several weeks. Canaris’ spies are curiously quiet as well...”
“That is no great surprise to me,” Hitler blurted bitterly. Rundstedt chose to ignore the remark, and went on.
“It is my belief that the Americans are preparing a counteroffensive, probably in the south, to bolster French efforts in Luxembourg and Belgium. The pressure we've put on them over the past few months means American troops will need some time to rest, resupply, reorganize, and redeploy. Therefore, I believe we have nothing to fear from the Americans for at least another month, possibly even two. This should be more than enough time to envelope the British.”
Hitler cocked his head. “Another attack, Herr Feldmarschall?”
Rundstedt nodded, leaning forward to point at the map. “Jawohl, mein Fuhrer. I am planning another thrust along the same axes of advance as Fall Wolf. In fact, the plan remains virtually unchanged, only the enemy is different. With the cooperation of Feldmarschall von Kuchler, the attack will begin in about six days, pushing through first to the ports of Antwerp and Rotterdam before tightening the noose around the Eindhoven pocket.”
Hitler nodded. “And if you run into the Americans?”
“For that contingency, I have deployed the remainder of my reserves forward into the Utrecht pocket. Feldmarschall von Kuchler has done the same. If we find the Americans, it is highly unlikely they will be combat ready, and as such ought to be easily dealt with. With luck, we will destroy a significant portion of the AEF as well as the BEF.”
“But with all your strength around Utrecht, your long left flank is exposed!” Hitler thumped a finger on the map, running it along the River Maas. “You have only a thin screen of troops here. What’s to keep them from pushing into Nijmegen? Or even Arnhem? What happens to your grand offensive then?”
Rundstedt stifled another snort of contempt. An obergefreiter in charge of the Heer! No wonder we failed last year, with all your godforsaken meddling. Mein Gott, it’s humiliating!
“Mein Fuhrer, you are correct, our lines in that sector are relatively thin, but are nonetheless hard as iron. The River Maas is a formidable barrier, and we control what bridges remain intact. We can blow those bridges at the first sign of an Allied attack, forcing them to build their own bridges under fire, and allowing us to redeploy troops from the Utrecht salient if need be.”
“You are sure?” Hitler didn’t sound convinced.
“I am confident, mein Fuhrer. We will not fail you again.”
Hitler tapped the map with his finger, staring blankly, his mind elsewhere for a moment. "You had better not, Herr Feldmarschall." He thumped the map, staring at Rundstedt. “This is your last chance."
Rundstedt nodded solemnly, rage and contempt boiling beneath his stoic features. How dare you?!
"Very well, then.” Hitler abruptly stood. Rundstedt jumped to his feet, his arm shooting up of its own accord.
“Heil Hitler!”
"Disguised" Mark VI Crusader & Mark II Matildas
M3A1 Stuart
Like the infantry, the armored units of the British Expeditionary Force were compelled to disguise themselves as Americans, painting white stars on the sloped frontal armor and wearing the standard uniform of the American tanker. Of course, the swarms of Crusaders and Matildas that arrived in Europe in May of 1941 looked nothing like the ungainly American Lees, and the Germans quickly noted the arrival of fresh armor. However, the new tanks were not attributed to the British, but instead to the arrival of other American models. In fact, German intelligence seems to have experienced a serious lapse throughout those crucial spring weeks, utterly missing the arrival of the BEF, mistaking the Crusaders for M4 Shermans, and the Matildas for M3A1 Stuarts. Thus, when the Germans finally realized the British had arrived, they believed them to be without armor. That mistake would cost them dearly
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June 2, 1941: Rotterdam, Holland.
The screen flickered briefly before the tinny music began to blare. White light splashed and flashed over the crowd of paratroopers, adding insult to the injury of Eric’s hangover. He groaned, shading his eyes, gulping down the lunch that decided it didn’t want to stay in his belly. He only remembered a few snippets of the previous evenings’ events, but what he remembered was more than enough to hold him over. Good food, sweet wine, and soft hair. Helluva night, he thought.
The newsreel dove quickly into war news. The last few days, nothing had been more newsworthy than the discovery that the British Expeditionary Force had mysteriously arrived on the continent. Eric snickered along with his buddies at the surprised gasps that came from a few civilians who likely didn’t get out much. Of course, there was no way those people could’ve (or should’ve, he thought) known, but the paratroopers knew, sure as hell.
They’d figured it out their first night guarding the docks when a few loudmouthed Limeys started jawing about how glad they were to finally be here. Their officers hadn’t been too happy about that, and the paratroopers and been strictly confined to quarters ever since, except, of course, when they were on guard duty. To keep their mouths shut, orders went out that any man who said a single thing to anybody about the British Army would be shot on charges of treason. That made loose lips tighten up pretty damn quick.
The first few nights he’d watched in awe as waves of British soldiers poured off the boats, marching off through the streets toward a waiting fleet of trucks. He and others exchanged confused looks for days, pointing out their American uniforms and weapons. Initially, he thought they’d been duped, that the officers told them they were British so they could fool eavesdropping spies. But the more he watched them, the more he became convinced. They just didn’t move like Americans. They marched different, with more of a swagger. Hell, if America had an empire half as big or for half as long as England, he thought, I’d swagger too.
The newsreel blared on. The images changed from smiling British soldiers to scowling French politicians. The newsman said something about strained relations, but Eric wasn’t listening anymore, his throbbing head convincing him of the need for a nap. He closed his eyes, slunk down in his seat, and folded his arms, trying to sleep. It didn’t quite work, but he did manage to zone out, finding that strange place between sleep and the world.
The British are coming! The British are coming! That had been the comical call that first night as excitement lanced through the division. But security had taken over then, the smiles vanishing in the need to appear as normal as possible. The Brits flooded onto the dock for a full week, but only at night. He had no idea what happened in the daylight. He slept through the days, and patrolled Rotterdam’s wrecked alleys at night. The second week, the soldiers stopped coming, but the dock’s never ceased their work. Trucks and artillery rattled through the moonlight then, followed by grumbling armored cars and roaring tanks.
Tanks. The newsreel hadn’t said anything about tanks, but I sure as hell remember them. What did the Brits call ‘em? They always give ‘em names. Not like the Army’s impossible list of letters and numbers. Cruisers? No. It sounded biblical. Crusaders! That’s it. And those other ones. Girls name, I think. Matty? No. Christ, what was it?
“Lights up! Paratroopers on your feet!”
Eric flew bodily awake, arms flailing. He accidentally slugged Sam.
“Ow!” Sam howled.
“Shut up!” A uniformed figure ascended the stage, silhouetted against the screen. He squinted in the bright light. “Turn that f###in’ thing off, will ya?” The screen went black as the house lights came up.
“I’ll be damned,” Sam whispered. “That’s Major Webb!”
“All paratroopers report immediately to the assembly area. All passes are hereby revoked. Move out!” He stalked off the stage and out the door.
The men grumbled, but quickly shuffled out. Eric followed Sam out into the sun, trying to use the tall man for shade. They walked quickly down the street to the waiting trucks, climbing into the bed of one with practiced ease. Eric wondered with trepidation if the soup he’d had for lunch would use the bouncy ride as an excuse to jump out. After a few minutes, the convoy rumbled off to the south, toward their camp. Long accustomed to the ride, the men lit cigarettes and chatted, pointing out buildings they’d helped rebuild, others that still needed work. After about an hour, the trucks squealed to a stop. Shouts met them as they clambered out.
“Get only your essential combat gear and load up again!” Sergeant Walker hollered at them through a bullhorn. “We’re moving out and will not be back! Leave your personal items at the commissary! They will be shipped to you at our next camp! Get only your essential combat gear and load up again...”
Sam shot a confused look over his shoulder. “What the hell?”
Eric shrugged, then trotted off to his bunk. His personal items didn’t account for much, just a few pictures, letters, and some cash. He shoved them into his pockets, then headed back to the trucks. He milled around, chatting with a few others who had similarly little in the way of creature comforts. After a couple hours, as the sky began to turn orange, they loaded up again. The trucks rumbled south.
The trucks drove through the night without lights, lest they draw the attention of German night bombers. Scuttlebutt said that, with the skies swarming with Allied planes by day, the only way Kraut planes could penetrate this far west was at night. The truck lurched violently, nearly tossing him out the back. The men reacted with skill, clinging to the bench and crossbars. Eric shook his head in frustration, but said nothing. Better to get bounced around, or even hit the truck in front of you, than to get shot up on the road.
The night stretched on endlessly, the trucks groping through the darkness like drunks. After a couple hours, the men grew tired of talking and of cards. They leaned on each other, trying to catch a few winks of sleep. Eric joined in, happily snoring the night away. He was just opening his eyes again when the truck staggered to a stop.
The men woke automatically, some jumping out the back without thinking, only to futilely and confusedly search for their bunks. Eric hopped onto the ground and took a look around. They were standing on the edge of a great airfield lined on either side with row after row of twin-engine aircraft. He scratched his head, whispering, “My God.”
“Huh?” Sam grunted.
“I’ve never seen so many Skytrains at once.”
Sam looked out at the lines of aircraft and whistled. “Damn. Me neither.” He looked at Eric, a sly smirk plastered across his face.
“You think they’re for us?”
Douglas C-47 Skytrain
Although more famous for its role as a civilian airliner in the 1930s, the C-47 Skytrain experienced a brief career as a military transport. While it was primarily used as personal transport for high-level commanders and occasionally foreign dignitaries, the Skytrain participated in the first and most famous airborne campaign of the Polish War: Operation Oasis. Contrived as part of Operation Drake, Oasis was a massive airborne assault on German occupied Holland, dropping three American airborne divisions on the strategically important towns of Nijmegen, Arnhem, and Zwolle. Once on the ground, the airborne would seize vital bridges and hold them until relieved by American and British armor advancing from the Eindhoven sector. Planning and training for the operation lasted for most of a year, which undoubtedly contributed to its surprising success. Operation Oasis, the first of a series of massive airborne assaults, is now considered to have ushered in a new era in warfare.
Here's that "rapidfire" I talked about. The next post will be a bit similar, but Lord Knows when I'll have a chance to get it up. Like I said, figure 1 post per week. Anyway, the next thing I'm working on is a Dramatis Personae, which will be edited into my first post (I'll let you all know when it's done so you don't miss it, but I want any new readers to be able to see it right away), then the OOB after that. Enjoy, and thanks for being so patient!
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19
May 21, 1941: 27km northeast of Hasselt, Belgium, northwest of the village of Gruitrode.
Lieutenant Kyle West sat quietly by himself, staring out over the lines at his men, a scowl scarring the taut skin of his face. They dug holes, stacked logs and branches for cover, set up machinegun nests, and otherwise dug in. None appeared too happy about it, but there hadn’t been any fights lately, so that had to count for something. It also seemed to indicate his men were finally warming to their British commanders, as they followed orders without a great deal of grousing. Kyle shook his head in sour amazement. He doubted he’d ever be more than dutifully polite to them.
Part of him was glad to have them here. After all, they’d replaced the American units that had orphaned them, marching into the darkness one night like drifters, never to be seen again. Kyle didn’t know how to feel about that. His regiment had been chosen to remain at the front, but no one had said why. They’d spent most of that first night cowering in basements, bedrooms, and attics, unsure of how the hell they were supposed to hold off the next attack, cursing the damn-fool generals who’d abandoned them. When the Brits arrived early the next morning, they were met at first with confusion, then cheers as realization struck. They hadn’t been abandoned. They were to form the nucleus of a new defense line so the thousands of inexperienced soldiers pouring into position would have some veterans to learn from. They quickly set to work showing the green men how to stay alive. The Brits learned quickly, even eagerly. Camaraderie was evident everywhere that first day, and Kyle even allowed himself to feel good about the queer situation for a moment. Then orders came down the line. The entire regiment had been officially folded into the British 3rd Infantry Division, commanded by Major General What’s His Name. Kyle hadn’t bothered listening to his name, or the names of countless other British officers who now were suddenly his superior. Whoever they were, he’d follow their orders, not because he wanted to, but because he had no other choice.
His men clearly felt the same way. There’d been more than the usual share of soldiers’ scuffles lately, and breaking them up was much more difficult than before, particularly since Kyle tended to take the side of his veterans rather than the cocky, green Brits. His boys resented the way some of the British officers lorded over them, as well, looking down their noses, refusing to engage in even the simplest of conversations. Of course, American officers weren’t supposed to fraternize with their soldiers either, but that didn’t stop them. In any case, it wasn’t the rudeness of the British officers that set the men off, it was their orders.
Those orders called for the rapid withdrawal from the village his men had fought so hard to take, and for the entire formation to fall back nearly three kilometers to the northwest to form a new line. When he asked why, his only answer was a hard stare and a confused look. Kyle snorted. F###ing Limeys. We take the damn town and they give it back without a fight. In my opinion, that warrants an explanation. But my opinion didn’t matter for s### with home grown officers, so why would it matters any more with these bastards?
He sighed loudly, sending a dark look eastward, toward the Germans. Whatever the brass were doing, his couldn’t afford to encourage insubordination in his men. They’d need these rookies to hold this godforsaken field against the SS. Nevermind the fact the damn Limeys hadn’t a single officer with combat experience. Nevermind the fact that all these veterans had to take orders from them. Nevermind the fact that all these men who had fought and bled for the last year suddenly weren’t even part of their own army anymore. He’d follow their orders because that’s what he did. Because the war wasn’t over, and in the end, did it really matter who gave him the orders? He shook his head. Damn right it does.
The British Expeditionary Force
The secret arrival of the British Expeditionary Force in Europe was, to put it lightly, an act of considerable skill, audacity, and risk. In totol, forty divisions, five of them armored, arrived via the ports of Rotterdam and Antwerp throughout the first three weeks of May. Initially, this massive operation was considered much too large to even contemplate secrecy, yet British officials convinced their American counterparts that it could be done. With the cooperation of the Dutch and Belgian governments, significant portions of the civilian populations of both Rotterdam and Antwerp were evacuated, and a considerable security zone was established, as was a strict curfew for those civilians who remained. Roads to the front were guarded as well, with orders to shoot any civilian who refused orders to turn back. Over their own vehement protests, British soldiers donned American uniforms, carried American weapons, and were under strict orders of silence for the duration of the voyage and march to the front. While they resented the temporary loss of their national identity, they resented the attitude of those Americans who remained at the front even more. Although glad for the chance to learn from their experience, the British chaffed at the American perception that they were “Johnny Come Latelys.” Fistfights were common through the middle weeks of May, and there are even a few documented shootings. These tensions subsided, however, as the June offensives approached. All in all, the combination of security and disguise succeeded in hiding the arrival of British troops for over two weeks, allowing the bulk of the BEF to move into position before the Germans had any notion they were there.
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May 23, 1941: Brumen, Occupied Holland.
Travis awoke with a start, head cocked like a dog, scouring the world for the sound that had jarred him awake. He heard nothing but his own shaken breathing. No planes, no boots, no distant artillery, no shuffling sounds from downstairs, nothing. The night was eerily silent. Sweat trickled from his forehead as he lay there, unmoving, listening to nothing, and fearing it.
He couldn’t remember the last time the world had been so quiet. He wasn’t in the habit of waking up at all hours of the night. This could be utterly normal, and I’d never know it. No. The front is silent. What’s happening? Why is there no fighting? Is the war over? What’s going on?
He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and stared out the small round window into the night. He couldn’t see much from the floor, but the sky was clear, milky moonlight casting blue-white shadows into the attic. He sat up slowly, getting his bearings, the last vestiges of sleep and dream dissolving. Then he remembered the dogs, the boots, the shouts. A nightmare, that’s all, he scolded himself. You’ve had a nightmare and you’re searching your room for ghosts like a child. He dug his fingers into his eyes as though he could pry the fear out of his head.
Nearly four months now, he thought. How many more? Please God, let me spend them here if I cannot fight. Protect me, Lord. Amen.
He’d never been a religious man before the war. But his first few missions convinced him of the truth behind the old maxim “there are no atheists in foxholes.” Considering he never knew a single flier to miss church, he figured there weren’t many atheists in cockpits, either. Even then, he’d never been one to pray outside of church, not even in combat. Looking out the window again, he nodded. Things were different now.
He stood carefully, quietly, stretching his back and legs. He stifled a moan of pleasure. He only risked standing every few days. The attic was small, and there was really no way to hide from prying eyes without laying or kneeling all the time. His joints ached and cracked. He let out small sighs of relief with each Pop, stretching luxuriously. He stood there a moment, looking out the window into the dark, empty street before quietly laying down again. His back ached in protest, and his arm twinged, but he just shrugged it off. With practiced ease, he fell quickly back to sleep.
The dogs and the guards and the shouts returned, chasing him through tall grass and short trees, over blue water and green fields. He passed people as he ran. They were watching him with blank, confused faces, unsure of what to do. He tried to scream, to beg them for help but his lungs held no air. He was helpless, mute and running, exhausted and drowning in fear. He fell, and they were upon him, barking and shouting and kicking him.
Bright pain coursed through his head. He screamed, his lungs suddenly full, the sound deafening and silent at once. He tried to open his eyes but the pain struck again. The shouts came again, searing his ears, but no dogs, just pain and noise. Something tugged at his arm, dragging him upright. He stood uneasily, swaying like a drunk. He opened his eyes to blinding light, willing them to focus. His mind struggled to clear as the dream gave way to the world, and a sneering face. The pain flashed again, blood filling his mouth, the copper taste snapping him finally awake. He tried to stand straight, but steel arms held him still.
“Hallo, Amerikaner.” The voice was perversely polite. He pried open his eyes again, forcing them to focus on the grayish blob before them. After a moment, he saw clearly enough that the man was Gestapo, and pointed a pistol at him.
Travis searched his burning head for something clever to say, but all he could manage was a weak “Hallo.”
The German smirked and barked, “Fortshaffen ihn!” He felt himself lifted bodily by the men holding his arms. They dragged him unceremoniously down the stairs and out into the street. Sunlight stabbed at his swollen eyes, adding to the masterpiece of pain in his head. A small crowd had gathered, but only stared, warily eyeing the smugly armed guards. A sedan waited for him to be tossed roughly inside. He moaned in pain, setting his swollen head against the cold glass, reveling in that small bit of relief. The engine sputtered noisily to life, and the car rumbled off. He passed out again, but not before he caught a glimpse of Lisette’s terrified face in the back of the sedan in front of him.
Early Lightning Strikes: F-4 1 LO Reconnaissance Lightning
Martin A-22 Maryland
As aircraft factories pumped out the last few Buffalos, the first Lightnings were delivered to American squadrons in Europe. However, these aircraft were not delivered to beleaguered fighter pilots endeavoring to protect A-20s, but to surprised reconnaissance squadrons. Intending to milk the new plane for all it was worth, Air Marshall Arnold determined the aircraft’s excellent high altitude performance made it the best candidate to replace the ailing Martin A-22 Marylands, which had proven easy prey for the Luftwaffe. The first Lightnings to come off the productions lines in early May, 1941, were specially equipped with a pair of K-17 aerial reconnaissance cameras. Literally within days, the first “Recon Lightning” mission was flown on May 26, 1941, by Lieutenant Ian Christian. The plane’s speed and maneuverability allowed the pilot to simply outfly his pursuers, leaving the Germans shocked and confused as he sped away with vital intelligence. Ironically, while the Germans were impressed with the Lightning’s performance, they assumed the plane had been specifically designed for reconnaissance. This mistake led to a great deal of confusion and unnecessary losses when the first armed Lightnings appeared at the end of June.
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May 28, 1941: 12 kilometers east of Oss, Holland.
The truck bumped noisily along, trailing stinking clouds of diesel exhaust. Troy did his best to keep from being thrown into the road, clinging white-knuckled to a crossbar, clutching his pack between his knees. A few other men road with him, struggling to hold on. Difficult as it was, some of those men were infantry, and apparently were accustomed to such shaky rides. He could pick the infantry out. They were smoking. The tankers (orphans like himself, survivors of dead tanks, dead crews) had burned themselves trying to light up in the heaving bed.
He tried to keep his thoughts on the road, but his mind wouldn’t cooperate. The image of Captain Russel’s ragged remains had seared itself into his brain like a scar. He saw it every time he closed his eyes, dreamed about it every time he slept. The body had quivered and jiggled, legs spasming and blood splashing. He’d spewed vomit all over it, adding a sour twinge to the iron stink of blood and bowel. Phil screeched in shock when he saw, then vomited himself. The crew panicked for a crucial second, Baxter and Mathers shouting into the intercom, unable to see the body, unsure and confused. Then the world exploded, the tank shuddering, smoke and sparks filling the interior. He’d fallen to the floor, face down in the blood, s###, and puke, his teeth digging painfully into his lips and cheek.
The truck lurched, swerving violently, tossing the men in the bed like rag dolls, snapping him back to reality. Even the infantry lost their grip, and their smokes, flailing wildly, howling in surprise and pain. Troy pulled himself back onto the bench with surprisingly little trouble, shouting something unseemly at the driver. Some of the words he used he’d never heard before joining the Army. Nevertheless, the driver either didn’t hear him, or didn’t give a damn. After a few more minutes of jostling, the brakes squealed, and the truck skidded to a halt. A couple tankers tumbled off the bench one last time, cursing as they picked themselves up. Troy stood on wobbly legs, then jumped to the ground, getting quickly out of the way before dropping his pack to stretch the cramps out of his back.
“Tankers over here! Infantry to the opposite side of the street!” A gruff voice bellowed at them from atop a stack of crates. Troy finished stretching and trotted over, eyeing the shouting captain. He was short and stocky with a short, jagged scar cutting through his face full of red whiskers. The other tankers joined him within seconds.
“Everybody here?” Troy counted five, including himself, the same number from the truck. The red-faced captain nodded, then went on. “Good. On behalf of General Collins, welcome to the 8th Armored Division, 45th Armored Corps. In case you haven’t heard yet, we’re the Thundering Herd. We’ve just got into the war, and we’re a bit shorthanded thanks to these f###ing snipers. That’s why you’re here. I’m Captain Scholtens. We don’t have a lot of time, and there’s more of you fellas comin’, so line up and you’ll be assigned to a crew.”
The captain hopped down to the ground and stalked off a few feet to a small cluster of men. Troy and the others followed him, falling into single file, waiting to be told what to do. He scanned his surroundings, squinting in the noon sun, taking in the layout of the land. Just a field, really, dotted with tents, makeshift huts, and a few clumps of trees. Not the front, but not far, he thought.
Scholtens snapped his head over his shoulder. “Any 75 gunners?”
One man raised his hand, nodding.
“Well, get over here.”
The gunner snatched up his pack and hustled over, following what Troy assumed to be his new captain off to his new rig.
“Radiomen?”
Another man raised his hand and was gone, marching off to join another crew. Troy shook his head, staring at the ground. He was like a cog, a spare part scavenged from his wrecked Lee, no different than a flywheel or a piece of track. He was a piece to a puzzle. Take the parts you need and throw out the rest. Don’t forget to wash off the blood and the stink, you f###ers.
“37 gunners?”
Phil had manned the 37. He was a kid, no more than 19, bright blue eyes and peach fuzz on his chin. Impatient as a child, but as calculating and lethal a gunner as he’d ever seen. The shell that killed Baxter and Mathers burned Phil’s legs up pretty bad, but he pulled Troy out of the muck, shoving him through the commander’s hatch, out into the battle. He saved his life, dragging him kicking and screaming to safety, holding him like an infant while he cried. And he was the one who found Captain Russel’s head half buried in the mud the next day, seconds before a Kraut sniper blew his head off.
“Loaders?”
Troy raised his head, wondering if he should raise his hand. Only he and one other were left. They stood there, motionless, staring. Scholtens stared back, the shook his head.
“S###.” He turned back to the group of tank commanders. “Sorry, Hal, no luck.”
“Sir,” Troy blurted. Hell, what am I doing? I only did it once! Well, can’t shut up now. “I’m a driver, but I spent some time as a 37 loader before I got hit.” His neck twinged where the sniper's bullet had cut its groove. Half an inch to the right, and he would’ve joined the rest of his crew.
Scholtens turned back toward the man named Hal, who nodded impatiently and waved him over. “Alright, then, move out.”
He hefted his pack and trotted off after Hal.
The Struggle to Replace the Lee
As the AEF prepared for operations Drake and Hatchet, its armored arms swelled from six to twelve divisions in just over a month. These tanks were all M3A3 Lees, which General Patton, commander of the 43rd Armored Corps, angrily referred to as “those damn backward cans.” Frustrated with their performance against German tanks, and galled by the clear superiority of British armor, Patton, along with his 44th Armored Corps counterpart General Courtney Hodges, urged Marshall to speed up work on the next model, the still experimental M4 Sherman. While the chassis of this tank had already proven suited to combat conditions in the T34 Calliope brigades, designers were still having problems mounting the short barreled 75mm cannon in a turret while maintaining the tank’s balance and fire accuracy. The pressure from combat commanders to get the tank in the field led to an early production run of M4A1s in June, 1941, all of which suffered from inaccurate fire and frequent breakdowns. These problems would not be completely overcome until February, 1942, after which the Sherman officially replaced the Lee as the United States’ primary battletank.
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May 29, 1941: Munster, Germany.
Field Marshall Gerd von Rundstedt pursed his lips, stifling his frustration. The Fuhrer stared smugly at him from across the table, a great map set out between them. The map was dotted with little flags, marking the front line as it stretched from the Swiss border to the North Sea. Shift those flags a couple dozen kilometers to the west, he thought bitterly, and you could hardly recognize this map from one of the Great War. And who’s fault is that? He glared back at Hitler.
“Mein Fuhrer, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
Hitler’s mustache twitched and his eyes darkened, though no scowl appeared on his face. “I have come to see for myself the condition of the troops and to determine why, after more than two months of fighting, you have not yet broken through to the coast.”
“Mein Fuhrer...”
“I’m not finished,” Hitler snapped, his eyes flashing. “I have also come to decide once and for all whether or not our little compromise is worth keeping, considering your failure here. Why should I leave the war to generals who have no will to fight?” His tenor was raised, his left arm shaking with barely contained rage. Rundstedt girded himself for another tantrum. “Why? You couldn’t smash the Americans a year ago when they were weak! You couldn’t smash them in April when you were strong! Why should I believe you can smash them now when the damned English have arrived?!”
He fumed, breathing loudly through his nose, eyes wide with anger. Rundstedt sat rigidly erect, his face blank, all contempt for the obergefreiter skillfully hidden behind his general’s mask. He let a few seconds of silence pass to be sure the little bastard was finished before he spoke.
“Mein Fuhrer, intelligence suggests that the arrival of the British has actually given us a better chance at breaking through than before. The Americans are heavily armed and experienced. They outnumber us in armor by about two to one, and in aircraft by more than four to one.” He suppressed the urge to lambaste Goering in front of Hitler. It may have been temporarily satisfying, but he doubted the wisdom of criticizing one of Hitler’s closest and oldest cronies, whether the fool deserved it or not. “But in terms of infantry, their strength has not changed since last autumn. We still count only sixty divisions...”
“How does this help us? You couldn’t break through those sixty divisions last year. What makes you think you can do it now?” The growl in his voice abated, and Rundstedt thought he even heard a little hope in there. He nearly smirked in satisfaction. Dangerous as he was, the Fuhrer would always listen if you gave him hope.
“But mein Fuhrer, we won’t have to break through those sixty divisions, because nearly all of them have been pulled out of the line, replaced by the inexperienced English. I didn’t believe it until I saw it myself, but the American divisions at the very point of our advance have been pulled back and replaced by units from the BEF.”
Hitler sat back, taking a deep, noisy breath. He let it out slowly, then said, “I never really believed those fools would stay out forever." He shook his head, muttering something Rundstedt couldn't here. He looked up again, scowling. "Go on.”
“While I have my suspicions as to what the Americans are up to, I believe we have a significant opportunity here. We have yet to find any signs of British armor or anti-tank guns, and from prisoners we’ve taken in recent raids, British artillery is much lighter than their American counterparts.”
“What about those wretched rocket launchers the Americans have. Where are they?”
“They departed with their divisions. Mein Fuhrer, the intelligence I have indicates the entire Allied line in my sector is held by troops who have never seen combat, have no armor, no anti-tank guns, no rocket artillery, and only sporadic deployments of light artillery. I have spoken to Feldmarschall von Kuchler, and he concurs that Allied deployments in his sector are of a similar nature. All together, we count only about forty such divisions.”
“Forty?” Hitler scowled, his forehead furrowed in thought. “So where are the Americans?”
“That question is more difficult to answer, Fuhrer. Although some divisions have remained in the Eindhoven sector, we are at the moment unsure of where the rest have gone. Aerial reconnaissance is difficult, verging on impossible at the moment.” Hitler’s mustache twitched again. “While I have no doubt of the courage of our brave pilots, the simple fact of the matter is I haven’t received any intelligence from aerial reconnaissance in several weeks. Canaris’ spies are curiously quiet as well...”
“That is no great surprise to me,” Hitler blurted bitterly. Rundstedt chose to ignore the remark, and went on.
“It is my belief that the Americans are preparing a counteroffensive, probably in the south, to bolster French efforts in Luxembourg and Belgium. The pressure we've put on them over the past few months means American troops will need some time to rest, resupply, reorganize, and redeploy. Therefore, I believe we have nothing to fear from the Americans for at least another month, possibly even two. This should be more than enough time to envelope the British.”
Hitler cocked his head. “Another attack, Herr Feldmarschall?”
Rundstedt nodded, leaning forward to point at the map. “Jawohl, mein Fuhrer. I am planning another thrust along the same axes of advance as Fall Wolf. In fact, the plan remains virtually unchanged, only the enemy is different. With the cooperation of Feldmarschall von Kuchler, the attack will begin in about six days, pushing through first to the ports of Antwerp and Rotterdam before tightening the noose around the Eindhoven pocket.”
Hitler nodded. “And if you run into the Americans?”
“For that contingency, I have deployed the remainder of my reserves forward into the Utrecht pocket. Feldmarschall von Kuchler has done the same. If we find the Americans, it is highly unlikely they will be combat ready, and as such ought to be easily dealt with. With luck, we will destroy a significant portion of the AEF as well as the BEF.”
“But with all your strength around Utrecht, your long left flank is exposed!” Hitler thumped a finger on the map, running it along the River Maas. “You have only a thin screen of troops here. What’s to keep them from pushing into Nijmegen? Or even Arnhem? What happens to your grand offensive then?”
Rundstedt stifled another snort of contempt. An obergefreiter in charge of the Heer! No wonder we failed last year, with all your godforsaken meddling. Mein Gott, it’s humiliating!
“Mein Fuhrer, you are correct, our lines in that sector are relatively thin, but are nonetheless hard as iron. The River Maas is a formidable barrier, and we control what bridges remain intact. We can blow those bridges at the first sign of an Allied attack, forcing them to build their own bridges under fire, and allowing us to redeploy troops from the Utrecht salient if need be.”
“You are sure?” Hitler didn’t sound convinced.
“I am confident, mein Fuhrer. We will not fail you again.”
Hitler tapped the map with his finger, staring blankly, his mind elsewhere for a moment. "You had better not, Herr Feldmarschall." He thumped the map, staring at Rundstedt. “This is your last chance."
Rundstedt nodded solemnly, rage and contempt boiling beneath his stoic features. How dare you?!
"Very well, then.” Hitler abruptly stood. Rundstedt jumped to his feet, his arm shooting up of its own accord.
“Heil Hitler!”
"Disguised" Mark VI Crusader & Mark II Matildas
M3A1 Stuart
Like the infantry, the armored units of the British Expeditionary Force were compelled to disguise themselves as Americans, painting white stars on the sloped frontal armor and wearing the standard uniform of the American tanker. Of course, the swarms of Crusaders and Matildas that arrived in Europe in May of 1941 looked nothing like the ungainly American Lees, and the Germans quickly noted the arrival of fresh armor. However, the new tanks were not attributed to the British, but instead to the arrival of other American models. In fact, German intelligence seems to have experienced a serious lapse throughout those crucial spring weeks, utterly missing the arrival of the BEF, mistaking the Crusaders for M4 Shermans, and the Matildas for M3A1 Stuarts. Thus, when the Germans finally realized the British had arrived, they believed them to be without armor. That mistake would cost them dearly
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June 2, 1941: Rotterdam, Holland.
The screen flickered briefly before the tinny music began to blare. White light splashed and flashed over the crowd of paratroopers, adding insult to the injury of Eric’s hangover. He groaned, shading his eyes, gulping down the lunch that decided it didn’t want to stay in his belly. He only remembered a few snippets of the previous evenings’ events, but what he remembered was more than enough to hold him over. Good food, sweet wine, and soft hair. Helluva night, he thought.
The newsreel dove quickly into war news. The last few days, nothing had been more newsworthy than the discovery that the British Expeditionary Force had mysteriously arrived on the continent. Eric snickered along with his buddies at the surprised gasps that came from a few civilians who likely didn’t get out much. Of course, there was no way those people could’ve (or should’ve, he thought) known, but the paratroopers knew, sure as hell.
They’d figured it out their first night guarding the docks when a few loudmouthed Limeys started jawing about how glad they were to finally be here. Their officers hadn’t been too happy about that, and the paratroopers and been strictly confined to quarters ever since, except, of course, when they were on guard duty. To keep their mouths shut, orders went out that any man who said a single thing to anybody about the British Army would be shot on charges of treason. That made loose lips tighten up pretty damn quick.
The first few nights he’d watched in awe as waves of British soldiers poured off the boats, marching off through the streets toward a waiting fleet of trucks. He and others exchanged confused looks for days, pointing out their American uniforms and weapons. Initially, he thought they’d been duped, that the officers told them they were British so they could fool eavesdropping spies. But the more he watched them, the more he became convinced. They just didn’t move like Americans. They marched different, with more of a swagger. Hell, if America had an empire half as big or for half as long as England, he thought, I’d swagger too.
The newsreel blared on. The images changed from smiling British soldiers to scowling French politicians. The newsman said something about strained relations, but Eric wasn’t listening anymore, his throbbing head convincing him of the need for a nap. He closed his eyes, slunk down in his seat, and folded his arms, trying to sleep. It didn’t quite work, but he did manage to zone out, finding that strange place between sleep and the world.
The British are coming! The British are coming! That had been the comical call that first night as excitement lanced through the division. But security had taken over then, the smiles vanishing in the need to appear as normal as possible. The Brits flooded onto the dock for a full week, but only at night. He had no idea what happened in the daylight. He slept through the days, and patrolled Rotterdam’s wrecked alleys at night. The second week, the soldiers stopped coming, but the dock’s never ceased their work. Trucks and artillery rattled through the moonlight then, followed by grumbling armored cars and roaring tanks.
Tanks. The newsreel hadn’t said anything about tanks, but I sure as hell remember them. What did the Brits call ‘em? They always give ‘em names. Not like the Army’s impossible list of letters and numbers. Cruisers? No. It sounded biblical. Crusaders! That’s it. And those other ones. Girls name, I think. Matty? No. Christ, what was it?
“Lights up! Paratroopers on your feet!”
Eric flew bodily awake, arms flailing. He accidentally slugged Sam.
“Ow!” Sam howled.
“Shut up!” A uniformed figure ascended the stage, silhouetted against the screen. He squinted in the bright light. “Turn that f###in’ thing off, will ya?” The screen went black as the house lights came up.
“I’ll be damned,” Sam whispered. “That’s Major Webb!”
“All paratroopers report immediately to the assembly area. All passes are hereby revoked. Move out!” He stalked off the stage and out the door.
The men grumbled, but quickly shuffled out. Eric followed Sam out into the sun, trying to use the tall man for shade. They walked quickly down the street to the waiting trucks, climbing into the bed of one with practiced ease. Eric wondered with trepidation if the soup he’d had for lunch would use the bouncy ride as an excuse to jump out. After a few minutes, the convoy rumbled off to the south, toward their camp. Long accustomed to the ride, the men lit cigarettes and chatted, pointing out buildings they’d helped rebuild, others that still needed work. After about an hour, the trucks squealed to a stop. Shouts met them as they clambered out.
“Get only your essential combat gear and load up again!” Sergeant Walker hollered at them through a bullhorn. “We’re moving out and will not be back! Leave your personal items at the commissary! They will be shipped to you at our next camp! Get only your essential combat gear and load up again...”
Sam shot a confused look over his shoulder. “What the hell?”
Eric shrugged, then trotted off to his bunk. His personal items didn’t account for much, just a few pictures, letters, and some cash. He shoved them into his pockets, then headed back to the trucks. He milled around, chatting with a few others who had similarly little in the way of creature comforts. After a couple hours, as the sky began to turn orange, they loaded up again. The trucks rumbled south.
The trucks drove through the night without lights, lest they draw the attention of German night bombers. Scuttlebutt said that, with the skies swarming with Allied planes by day, the only way Kraut planes could penetrate this far west was at night. The truck lurched violently, nearly tossing him out the back. The men reacted with skill, clinging to the bench and crossbars. Eric shook his head in frustration, but said nothing. Better to get bounced around, or even hit the truck in front of you, than to get shot up on the road.
The night stretched on endlessly, the trucks groping through the darkness like drunks. After a couple hours, the men grew tired of talking and of cards. They leaned on each other, trying to catch a few winks of sleep. Eric joined in, happily snoring the night away. He was just opening his eyes again when the truck staggered to a stop.
The men woke automatically, some jumping out the back without thinking, only to futilely and confusedly search for their bunks. Eric hopped onto the ground and took a look around. They were standing on the edge of a great airfield lined on either side with row after row of twin-engine aircraft. He scratched his head, whispering, “My God.”
“Huh?” Sam grunted.
“I’ve never seen so many Skytrains at once.”
Sam looked out at the lines of aircraft and whistled. “Damn. Me neither.” He looked at Eric, a sly smirk plastered across his face.
“You think they’re for us?”
Douglas C-47 Skytrain
Although more famous for its role as a civilian airliner in the 1930s, the C-47 Skytrain experienced a brief career as a military transport. While it was primarily used as personal transport for high-level commanders and occasionally foreign dignitaries, the Skytrain participated in the first and most famous airborne campaign of the Polish War: Operation Oasis. Contrived as part of Operation Drake, Oasis was a massive airborne assault on German occupied Holland, dropping three American airborne divisions on the strategically important towns of Nijmegen, Arnhem, and Zwolle. Once on the ground, the airborne would seize vital bridges and hold them until relieved by American and British armor advancing from the Eindhoven sector. Planning and training for the operation lasted for most of a year, which undoubtedly contributed to its surprising success. Operation Oasis, the first of a series of massive airborne assaults, is now considered to have ushered in a new era in warfare.
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