Then, his voice louder and more assertive, he asked, “Where in the name of God did these Soviet regiments come from?”
“Poland, Mister President,” Marshall replied.
Admiral King slapped the arm of his chair in frustration. Then he said, “It’s all the Brits’ fault…all that delusional noise Churchill made about freeing Poland from Stalin’s grip. Now that he’s gotten himself thrown out of office and Attlee’s more interested in kissing Soviet ass than kicking it, Uncle Joe’s not worried about protecting his grip on Poland in the least. He’ll throw everything he’s got against us…and against those boys we’ve got traipsing through Czechoslovakia at the moment.”
Truman’s tone turned cutting. “How quick you forget, Admiral, that up until this very minute, you were fully in favor of Operation Curveball.”
“Wait a minute,” Secretary of State Byrnes interjected. “Do you suppose this Soviet move is in direct response to Curveball? I mean, if it’s not, its timing is incredibly coincidental.”
Marshall replied, “But a coincidence, nonetheless. They would’ve needed advance knowledge of the operation. It takes days to organize a movement as large as one the Soviets just accomplished. You couldn’t do it on the spur of the moment. It’s highly unlikely they knew of Curveball in advance.”
Byrnes shot back, “There seems to be a lot of unlikelihoods going around. Unlikely that they know what we’re doing and certainly unlikely for us to know a damn thing about what they’re doing.”
Irritated, the president snapped, “Take it easy, Jimmy. That’s not helping.” Then, suddenly animated, he sounded like a drowning man who’d just been thrown a life preserver. “So if we continue Curveball and push farther into Czechoslovakia and then Germany, the Russians will have to pull those forces from Berlin to try and stop it, won’t they?”
“Unfortunately, sir,” Marshall replied, “the sudden presence of those regiments—units we previously considered well out of play—shifts the balance of power in that area of operations firmly to the Soviets. Without immediate mobilization of all American, British, and French units in Western Europe, it’s unlikely we’d prevail. And that mobilization is certainly not going to happen, not in the requisite timeframe, at least.”
“But their fuel situation,” Truman protested. “I thought we’d crippled their ability to move large units around like that.”
“More than likely, Mister President, they’ve robbed Peter to pay Paul,” Marshall replied. “To fuel those regiments now in Berlin, I’m sure they’ve impoverished the rest of their forces in the region.”
King couldn’t resist adding, “Or maybe we were just dead wrong about how much fuel the Soviets have.”
Still grasping at straws, Truman said, “But wait…if the forces facing Curveball are low on fuel, our boys could still pose a significant threat, couldn’t they? Enough for the Soviets to have to pull those tank regiments out of Berlin?”
Before Marshall could answer, a military aide entered and handed him a message. His face remained impassive as he read it. When done, he said, “I believe this latest message speaks to the question you just asked, Mister President. Eisenhower is informing us that he’s halted Operation Curveball, awaiting further instructions from us.”
Truman’s urge was to say, Well, tell that damn Eisenhower to start the damn thing right back up again!
But he sensed Marshall had countless reasons as to why that wouldn’t be a good idea. And the president had learned enough about large-scale military operations to know that when you stopped one which was already underway, you sacrificed any momentum you might’ve gained…
And once that momentum is gone, it will be a cold day in Hell before you get it back again.
He asked Marshall, “Have we just lost our window of opportunity for Curveball, General?”
“In all likelihood, yes, Mister President.”
In the uncomfortable silence that followed, one thought replayed in Truman’s mind: I can’t lose Berlin.
Secretary Byrnes asked for the floor and got it. “I propose the following, Mister President: let’s assume that this new situation in Berlin is in direct response to Curveball, whether it actually is or not. We’ll announce to the Soviets that Curveball was merely an exercise and not meant to be a direct threat to them. At the same time, we reaffirm our intention to cling tenaciously to our zones of occupation in Berlin and reinforce that statement with some massive demonstration of force—a show of our superior air power, perhaps. This way, we offer them something while calling their bluff…if it is a bluff, of course.”
Truman asked, “And if it’s not a bluff, Jimmy?”
“Then our massive show of force may have to be more than merely a demonstration, Mister President.”
Truman looked to Marshall and asked, “Is the Air Force capable of such a thing on short notice, General?”
“I believe so, Mister President. I’ll get General Arnold on it immediately.”
“All right,” Truman said. “Tell Eisenhower to reel in Curveball. Just make damn sure he understands that our presence in Berlin is not—repeat not—negotiable. He gave the place away once. He’d better make damn sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
At a tactical fighter squadron base in southeastern Germany, right near the Czech border, the hold message spilled from the teletype just as the first jugs were taking off. The operations officer asked the squadron commander, “Do you want me to recall them, sir?”
Spindling the message in his hands, the commander thought back to a time last year in France, when another hold order had been issued and the aircraft promptly recalled. But no sooner had the squadron returned to base than a new action flared, and an American ground unit, now lacking the air support that could’ve already been overhead, was promptly mauled.
It doesn’t hurt a damn thing to have them flying around, just in case. They’re all gassed up and loaded for bear. Better to have them up there because once they’re down, they’re not doing anybody any good. If nothing else, they’ll give the Russians something to think about.
“Sit on it for a while,” the commander told his ops officer. “Let the jugs go.”
Jan Kostka was sure his adventures with the American reporter Jim Pearson had ended the night they’d stumbled into that Russian outpost on the Prague highway. Even the hard to come by automobile Pearson had acquired was destroyed in that outing. The lack of transportation alone should’ve kept the American sidelined.
But there he was again, parked outside Kostka’s house in Pisek, blowing the tinny horn of yet another beat-up but still-running sedan. When he stuck his head out of the door of the house, Pearson yelled to him, “C’mon, Jan…let’s go find the war!”
Nothing could’ve been further from the translator’s mind.
“The money’s not worth it,” Kostka replied, leaning through the car’s open window. “Not after the last time.”
There was a worn leather satchel on the passenger’s seat. Pearson opened it, proudly displaying its contents. Amongst the papers and camera stashed within, there appeared to be more koruna in that satchel than Kostka had seen since before the German occupation took control of the Czech currency.
Smiling, Pearson asked, “Is it worth it now, Jan?”
Ten minutes later, they were driving out of Pisek, now nearly empty of American troops.
“Something big is going on, that’s for sure,” Pearson said. “Good thing we were able to hit the road when we did. Any later and we wouldn’t be going anywhere—it looks like half the US Army’s going to be passing through Pisek within the hour. That’ll clog up everything for days.”
“Who are you going to try to interview this time?” Kostka asked.
“Anybody I can get my hands on—Russians, GIs, I don’t care. Just as long as they’re in the fight. After the powers that be squashed my last story, I’m overdue for a scoop.”
“What was that story about?”
“Patt
on told me that the Nazi party was no different than the political parties back in the States. Can you imagine the uproar that would’ve caused?”
“Yes,” Kostka replied, “I can see that. But you didn’t think it would be censored?”
“Hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?”
Kostka rolled his eyes: These idiotic Americans…they’re just Russians with their pants pressed.
An American ambulance raced past them in the opposite direction, headed to Pisek. “See? I told you,” Pearson said. “There’s a brand new war going on, my friend, and I’m going to be the eyes and ears of the world. They won’t be able to keep this story quiet.’’
They were alone on the highway for a few more miles. Then they saw a flurry of activity ahead. “It looks like the carnival’s in town,” Pearson said. “There’s GIs and Army trucks all over the place. Let’s go find out what they’re setting up.”
As they stepped from the car, an MP sergeant drove up in a jeep and asked them to state their business. When told they were a reporter and his translator, the MP brought them to an American officer who introduced himself as Major Lowe.
Pearson noticed something right away: the men doing all the work—building barbed wire fences, erecting tents—weren’t GIs at all. They were speaking German and wearing Wehrmacht uniforms devoid of insignia. He estimated their number at nearly one hundred. The only Americans were Major Lowe and the two dozen or so MPs keeping an eye on them.
“This looks like slave labor to me,” Pearson said, his camera snapping away.
“No, Mister Pearson,” Lowe replied, “these men are all volunteers, just a part of the labor battalions formed by General Patton before he was reassigned.”
“Volunteers, eh? Then why do they need guards, Major?”
“For their own protection, Mister Pearson.”
Sean took the turret seat vacated by the injured Colonel Hardy as 37th Tank plunged into Plan Biloxi. He directed the tank’s driver to the front of the two-company armored force that would comprise the west jaw of the pincer. A force of equal strength led by Captain Carpenter would be the east jaw. The direct-support 105-mm howitzer battery was in firing position just off the highway, protected by the recon tank platoon performing rear guard duties.
The TC asked Sean, “You ain’t taking over the battalion, are you, Sarge?”
“Hell, no. You know it don’t work that way. Captain Carpenter’s running the show right now. He and a bunch of green lieutenants have to buy it before a sergeant takes over. But I want a front-row seat for this shindig, and I ain’t gonna get it in no jeep.”
Tommy’s radio truck accompanied Captain Carpenter’s force; it was better the ASO stayed within shouting distance of the overall commander. That way, there’d be no need to clutter a radio frequency just so the two of them could talk. The artillery FO was with them for the same reason.
The overcast was breaking up much faster than anyone imagined. The jugs—the air support that might’ve been recalled but wasn’t—were orbiting nearby but at a safe distance from the itchy trigger fingers of nervous GI gunners. But the planes would need help differentiating the GIs from the Russians. The FO was a young lieutenant who’d been in Europe all of two months, missing the war completely. He was quite confused when Tommy told him, “We need to give the jugs some goalposts.”
“I don’t know what that means, sir,” the FO replied. “They never taught us that in artillery school.”
“It’s real simple, Lieutenant. We’re going to put three white phosphorous airbursts on an east-west line right in front of the battalion’s position, with burst heights of one thousand yards—that’s way above this low cloud deck. The pilots will know not to hit anything south of that line, because they just might be hitting us if they do.”
“Won’t the smoke from the airbursts just blow away in the wind, sir?”
“Yeah, but it takes a while. They’ve got plenty of time to get oriented…and we’ll tell the pilots the wind direction, so they can compensate for it.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier if we just put smoke rounds on the ground, sir?”
“Lieutenant, I don’t know if you’ve ever been up in a plane, but take it from me—it’s really hard to see white smoke through white clouds. And it’s a recipe for disaster, too. Everybody down on the ground looks pretty alike when you’re moving fast.”
“Okay, I think I’ve got it,” the FO replied. Tommy watched closely as the lieutenant began the plot on his map.
“Yeah, I believe you do have it, Lieutenant. Let ’em rip.”
The lead elements of both pincer jaws were closing on the objective. Sean estimated their distance-to-go at less than five hundred yards.
But something ain’t right here, he thought as he scanned ahead through binoculars. I ain’t looking at artillery positions. I see tank turrets. They look like T-34s. At least they’re not IS-2s or assault guns.
But where the hell did they come from?
On the opposite side of the highway, Tommy, Carpenter, and the FO climbed a rise on foot that yielded an unrestricted view for miles to the north. They’d left their vehicles concealed a few yards down on the backslope. Crouched on the peak, they—like Sean—saw something they weren’t expecting: those guns in the aerial photos weren’t emplaced anymore. They were on the road moving slowly north, being pulled by horses and cattle. Tommy estimated their distance at roughly two miles.
In their place were tanks—T-34s—just like Sean had found on the other side of the highway.
One of the jug pilots overhead had seen the guns on the road, too, through a break in the clouds. He radioed Tommy, “We got a fix on them off those WP rounds you gave us. We can hit that road traffic right now, if you want.”
“Stand by,” Tommy told the pilot. Then he asked Carpenter, “What do you think? Start raking that circus parade on the road, or hold the jugs for these tanks?”
Carpenter replied, “Do you think your jugs can even see any of those tanks right now? I mean, they’re hidden in trees. It’s not like they’re lined up on a road.”
“Nah, they won’t see them in those trees,” Tommy said. “Not until this cloud deck breaks up some more. If they see a tank at all, there’s a good chance it’ll be a Zippo…and they probably won’t be able to tell the difference.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured. Put the jugs on the road traffic, then. We’ll deal with the tanks ourselves for now.”
Sean was on the radio to Carpenter. “How about we put some HE airbursts from the one-oh-fives over those tank positions, just in case there’s infantry with ’em?”
HE: high explosive. An airburst from an HE round rains deadly steel fragments down on personnel not protected by sturdy overhead cover. It doesn’t do much of anything to armored vehicles, though.
Sean had one more thing to add: “Just keep our own infantry buttoned up in their vehicles and out of the way so they don’t catch none of the shit.”
Carpenter asked Tommy, “Can we shoot that HE and not get it in the jugs’ way if they’re hitting the road traffic?”
All Tommy could think about was Jansen flying right into that Royal Navy shell. “Not yet,” he replied. “Everyone’s too close. The jugs’ll fly right into it no matter which way they come.”
Carpenter thought it over for a moment. Then he said, “The road traffic can wait. They aren’t going anywhere fast. Put the artillery over those Ivan tanks.”
Tommy directed the jugs well away from the artillery’s trajectory. Then he took another look at the exodus of Russian guns making slow progress up the road.
In Sean’s tank, the command radio squawked. That set had been so quiet they’d forgotten about it. The TC took the call, then looked at Sean in confusion.
“It’s Messiah, Sarge,” the TC said. “Who the hell’s Messiah?”
“That’s Division,” Sean told him. “Tell ’em we’re ready to copy.”
But the message needed no decoding; it was sent in the clear.
>
Sean’s first thoughts when he heard it: Son of a bitch! I guess they ain’t following what’s going on up here real close.
He relayed the message to Carpenter. “They want us to hold our position. Can you believe that?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Carpenter replied. “Tell them holding isn’t an option since we’re engaged with the Ivans at the moment. Then ask them what they really want us to do.”
The first airbursts exploded above the T-34s on Sean’s flank, kicking up dirt and sparks as the shell fragments tore into the ground and bounced off the tanks. Then the artillery shifted to Carpenter’s side of the highway.
“Let’s give ’em another volley in the same places,” Sean said, “then shift it north a hundred yards, in case their infantry is smart enough not to be lying next to them tanks.”
To everyone’s surprise, the Russian tanks still hadn’t fired at them. Carpenter’s vantage point allowed him to see why: “They’ve dug in those T-34s like they’re just fixed guns pointing only at the highway. They can’t even traverse the turrets far enough toward us…too many trees in the way of the tubes. What a fucking stupid way to use tanks.”
The final volley of artillery burst over the Russian position. “Let’s swing our elements north,” Sean told Carpenter, “and then we pivot back to shoot them right in their asses.”
“Good plan. Let’s do it.”
As Sean’s element began to close behind the dug-in T-34s, they were amazed to see only a few attempting to face them by backing out of their hides. The rest—some twenty vehicles—stayed right where they were, sitting ducks with their most vulnerable side—their rear—exposed.
Sean’s first thought: Is it even possible they still don’t see us?
He brought a platoon of Shermans on line. They fired into the soft rear ends and flanks of those T-34s trying to move, blowing chunks of hull and engine parts into the air.
But they didn’t burn much, if at all.
Don’t look like there’s a whole lot of gas in them rattletraps, Sean told himself. Maybe not a whole lot of ammo, either.
This Fog of Peace (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 4) Page 29