"Sir, I don't under-"
"The War Bond Tour, Clete," Dawkins explained. "A dozen certified heroes have been chosen to tour the West Coast to inspire civilians to buy War Bonds, or maybe to rush to the recruiting office. Maybe both. Anyway, you're on it."
Don't get your hopes up. At the last minute something will happen and they'll change their minds.
"I thought you had to have a medal to get that."
"Your DFC, your second, has come through."
"When would I go?"
"The radio said 'will proceed immediately.' So if you feel up to it, you can be on this afternoon's R4D to Espiritu Santo." The R4D was the Navy/Marine Corps version of the Douglas DC-3 (C-47) transport aircraft.
"No shit?" Clete blurted.
"A particularly inappropriate vulgarism, wouldn't you say, Mr. Frade, under the circumstances?"
Frade blushed. This made him look even younger than his twenty-two years.
"Frade, you're one hell of a pilot and a good Marine. I'm going to miss you around here."
Frade blushed even deeper.
"Can I ask a favor?" Dawkins asked.
"Yes, Sir. Of course."
"Stop by the office. Say, at 1400. Precisely, as a matter of fact, at 1400. The R4D leaves at 1430. I'd be grateful if you would mail a letter for me, to my wife, when you get to the States."
"Yes, Sir, of course. 1400."
I did not tell him, Dawkins thought, that there will also be a small ceremony waiting for him then, during which the Com-manding General of the First Marine Division will pin the Dis-tinguished Flying Cross (Second Award) on his chest. Like most good Marine officers, he is made uncomfortable by such events. He just might not show up. And I do want him to mail the letter to my wife.
"I'm glad you walked away from that one, Clete," Dawkins said, offering him his hand.
"I'm sorry I wrecked the airplane, Colonel."
"What the hell, Clete, when we run out of airplanes, maybe they'll call the war off."
[TWO]
Headquarters, Sixth Army
Stalingrad, USSR
3 October 1942
Oberstleutnant Wilhelm von Steamer waited patiently just inside the closed office door until the tall, taciturn, fifty-two-year-old commander of the Sixth Army, General Friedrich von Paulus, raised his eyes from the documents on his desk and indicated without speaking that he was prepared to hear what von Steamer had on his mind. He then came to attention.
"Herr General, BrigadeFhrervon Neibermann asks for a mo-ment of your time. He says it's quite important."
Waffen-SS BrigadeFhrerLuther von Neibermann was Political Adviser to the Sixth Army. Like many-perhaps most-military commanders, von Paulus did not like political advisers. They got in the way of military operations, for one thing. For another, they had their own lines of communication to Berlin, over which they offered their own opinions of the conduct of the operations they were involved in. Von Paulus did not consider himself above criticism, but criticism from someone who was not a professional soldier was hard to swallow.
Waffen-SS BrigadeFhrerLuther von Neibermann's rank was honorary. Before the war he was in the Foreign Ministry, where he had early on been smart enough to align himself with the National Socialists. In von Paulus's opinion, he had risen higher in the Foreign Ministry hierarchy than he had any right to, based on his intelligence and his suitability. He was a short, paunchy, bald man of forty-two, who looked ludicrous in his black uniform with the death's-head insignia. Von Paulus loathed him, and what he stood for; but he was of course careful not to let his feelings show.
More than one senior officer's military career had ended when unsupported and unjustified accusations of defeatism had been leveled by a political adviser. Von Paulus was determined that wasn't going to happen to him.
"Did he say what's on his mind?" von Paulus asked.
"He said it was a sensitive matter of importance."
"Ask the BrigadeFhrerto come in, please."
Von Steamer turned and opened the door.
"The General will see you now, Herr Brigadefuhrer," he an-nounced.
Von Neibermann marched in, crossed over to von Paulus's desk, and clicked his heels, then gave the stiff-armed Nazi salute and the now ritual greeting, "Heil Hitler!"
Von Paulus touched his forehead with a gesture that might have been a salute, muttered something that might have been "Heil Hitler," and then met von Neibermann's eyes.
"How may I be of service, Herr Brigadefuhrer?"
"Herr General, it is with deep regret that I must inform you of the death in battle of StandartenFhrervon Zainer."
Von Paulus was genuinely sorry to hear this. He knew von Zainer. He had never quite understood why a man of good family, with a strong military heritage, had elected to transfer to the Waf-fen-SS-even though that was the path to more rapid promotion than he would have found in the Panzertruppen. All the same, von Zainer had been a good, even outstanding soldier, first in Poland, then in France, and now here.
"I am very sorry to hear that," von Paulus said. "Are you familiar with the circumstances?"
"The Standartenfuhrer was making an aerial reconnaissance, Herr General. His Storch was shot down."
The Fieseler Storch was a single-engine, two-place observation aircraft, the German equivalent of the Piper Cub.
"The fortunes of war," von Paulus said.
It was typical of von Zainer to personally conduct his own reconnaissance, with the risk that entailed, although such actions were officially frowned upon for senior officers (a Waffen-SS Standartenfuhrer held a rank equivalent to an Oberst, or colonel). But von Zainer probably had his reasons, von Paulus decided. And now he was dead, so criticism was out of place.
"He had Captain Duarte with him, Herr General."
Von Paulus's raised eyebrows told von Neibermann that the name meant nothing to him.
"The Argentine, Herr General," von Neibermann explained. "Hauptmann Jorge Alejandro Duarte."
Von Paulus, now remembering, was genuinely sorry to hear this too. The young Argentine Cavalry captain had been an ex-traordinarily nice-looking young man; and during the few minutes of the Argentine's courtesy call, von Paulus had realized that Duarte did not view his attachment as an observer as a vacation from his duties at his embassy in Berlin but as a learning expe-rience for a professional officer.
"I don't quite understand," von Paulus said.
"Captain Duarte volunteered to fly the mission, Herr General."
Von Paulus now remembered Hauptmann Duarte telling him- with the enthusiasm of a young, energetic officer-that he had asked for and been granted a detail to the Aviaci¢n Militar branch of the Argentinean Army. In his words: "Aircraft are the cavalry of the future."
He was not supposed to do that, von Paulus thought. He was an Argentine. Argentina is neutral. Taking an active role was a violation of the Geneva Convention.
Not that the Russians would have paid any attention to his neutral status if they'd been able to lay their hands on him. That was probably his rationale for doing what he should not be doing.
"Have we recovered the bodies?" von Paulus asked.
"Von Zainer's men recovered them within minutes, Herr Gen-eral," von Neibermann said admiringly. "The Storch went down in the Volga."
If the Russians had found the bodies and had recognized an Argentinean uniform, there might have been complications, von Paulus thought. And then he wondered, Is that what's bothering von Neibermann?
"Be so good, Herr Brigadefuhrer, to inform me of the time of the burial service. I would like to attend."
"Herr General, there are political ramifications of this unfor-tunate incident."
"You mean because he was flying the airplane when he should not have been?"
"I mean because he died fighting communism."
"I don't quite follow you, Herr Brigadefuhrer."
"I think the body should not be buried here," von Neibermann said. "It should be escorted to Berlin, and turn
ed over to the Argentinean Ambassador. I would not be at all surprised if they wished to repatriate it."
Von Paulus said nothing. He waited, his face impassive, for von Neibermann to continue.
"There is enormous propaganda potential in this incident, Herr General," von Neibermann said. "This brave officer's unfortu-nate death at the hands of the communists could well serve to maintain-indeed, to buttress-Argentine sympathy for our cause."
"What exactly do you think I should do, von Neibermann?"
"I believe Captain Duarte's remains should be transported to Berlin immediately, by air. I have been informed that your per-mission, Herr General, is required for space on a transport air-craft."
"The transport aircraft are being used to evacuate our badly wounded," von Paulus said, thinking aloud. "And officer couri-ers."
"I respectfully submit, Herr General, that this is an extraordi-nary circumstance."
"Very well," von Paulus said, and raised his voice: "Von Steamer!"
Oberstleutnant von Steamer appeared almost immediately.
"Arrange for a priority for Brigadefuhrer von Neibermann to transport a body to Berlin..."
"For the body and myself," von Neibermann added. "I think under the circumstances that is appropriate."
And it will give you a chance to go to Berlin, won't it? And regale the Austrian Corporal and his henchmen with tales of your bravery at Stalingrad? Perhaps with a little luck, you might not have to come back.
"Do it, please, Willi," von Paulus said.
"Jawohl, Herr General," von Steamer said.
[THREE]
Headquarters, Company "A"
76th Parachute Engineer Battalion
82nd Airborne Division
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
1345 5 October 1942
Captain John R. McGuire, commanding Able Company of the Seventy-sixth, had not been told why it had been deemed nec-essary to demolish and remove from the site the World War I power-generating station. The stocky, muscular, twenty-four-year-old graduate of West Point had been informed only mat his company was charged with the mission.
The station was situated in a remote corner of the enormous Fort Bragg reservation on what was now a 105- and 155-mm artillery impact area. It consisted of several sturdy brick buildings, now gutted, and a 150-foot brick chimney. The rusting hulks of half a dozen World War I Ford-built tanks were scattered around it, as if protecting it. Most of these were half buried in the ground, and were also now showing scars where they had been hit by artillery.
The mission could be regarded in two ways: As a dirty, un-necessary job dreamed up by some jackass at Division Head-quarters. In an artillery impact area, it would be just a matter of time until the chimney and the buildings around it were reduced to rubble. Or as an opportunity to give his men some realistic, hands-on training in demolitions and using bulldozers and other heavy equipment.
Captain McGuire elected to see the mission in the latter regard. He thus received permission from Battalion to delay the pre-scribed company training for five days, successfully arguing that it would benefit the men of his company more not only to practice their skills, but to become familiar with how other specialists performed their duties.
In other words, the entire company would watch the second platoon rig explosive charges on the chimney and the gutted buildings (these would be designed to knock the chimney down and reduce the massive brickwork to large chunks). Then the entire company would watch the first platoon, using air-hammers, reduce the large chunks of masonry to sizes which the third platoon would then load onto trucks and haul away. During all of these operations, everyone would lend a hand, wherever possible; they'd all get their hands dirty. Finally, everyone would get a chance to watch the company's bulldozers scrape the area and turn it back into bare ground.
Since Captain McGuire thought of himself as something of an expert in the skills required for this project, he had given it a good deal of thought. In his judgment, it would take two days to lay the initial demolition charges. Using the available engineer manuals, he had precisely calculated the explosive needed to top-ple the chimney and shatter the brickwork of the surrounding buildings.
It would then take another two days, using both explosives and air-hammers, to reduce the chunks to manageable sizes, and a final day to load everything up, truck it off, and bulldoze the site.
He had kept this information to himself. In his view, the best way for his platoon-leading lieutenants to learn how to do some-thing was to do it themselves-using the available manuals as a guide, of course.
Because Second Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi commanded his second platoon, he was charged with toppling the tower. After Pelosi surveyed the site, he came up with an Explosives Require-ment that, in Captain McGuire's judgment, was woefully insuf-ficient for the task.
Even so, McGuire decided to let Pelosi fail. When Pelosi blew his charges and the chimney and the buildings still stood, he would learn the painful and humiliating truth that he didn't know nearly as much about demolitions as he thought he did.
Pelosi's overconfidence was perhaps understandable. Very soon after he arrived in Able Company, Pelosi informed McGuire that in Chicago, where he came from, his family operated a firm called Pelosi & Sons Salvage Company; his father was one of the sons. McGuire instantly concluded that the firm was connected with used auto parts or something of that nature; but that did not turn out to be the case. Rather, the business involved the salvage of bridges, water tanks, and other steel-framed structures. The first step in the salvage process, Lieutenant Pelosi went on to explain, was knocking the structure down. This was normally accom-plished by explosives.
While he was not arrogant about it-Pelosi was really a nice kid, who had the makings of a good officer-he was nonetheless unable to conceal his conviction that he knew more about explosives and demolition than anyone he'd met in the Army.
After Pelosi gave him his Explosives Requirement list, his more than a little annoying aura of self-confidence inspired McGuire to go back and recalculate the explosives necessary for the job. Re-calculation confirmed McGuire's belief that all Pelosi's charges were going to do was make a lot of noise.
Captain McGuire's major problem with Pelosi, however, was not his misplaced self-confidence, but his application for transfer. McGuire was trying to be philosophical about it.
For one thing, he told himself, no officer is indispensable. Losses of officers, either through routine transfers or eventually in combat, were inevitable; and as commanding officer, he should be prepared to deal with them. For another, when a young, full-of-piss-and-vinegar second lieutenant, fresh from both Officer Candidate School and the Parachute School at Fort Benning (in other words, he had volunteered for both OCS and Airborne), saw a notice on the Bulletin Board soliciting volunteers for an unspecified military intelligence assignment-volunteers who were parachute-qualified officers fluent in one or more of a dozen listed foreign languages-it was to be expected that he would volunteer.
Lieutenant Pelosi was not quite old enough to vote; and, Cap-tain McGuire was quite sure, he had not yet lost either his boyish enthusiasm or his boyish taste for adventure. He almost certainly saw himself parachuting behind enemy lines, Thompson subma-chine gun in hand, a la Alan Ladd or Tyrone Power in the movies. On the ground, when he was not blowing up Mussolini's head-quarters, he'd spend his time in the arms of some large-breasted Italian beauty. (He was fluent in Italian; where else could they send him?)
If real life actually worked that way, McGuire thought, he would have been happy to see Pelosi go. But McGuire had been around the Army, long enough-his father, also a West Pointer, had just been promoted to Brigadier General-to view somewhat suspiciously the recruitment of parachute-qualified officers with foreign language skills.
Military Intelligence, for example, needed people to read the Osservatore, the Vatican newspaper, to see if there was anything there that could remotely be of interest to the U.S. Army. After receiving permission to
recruit volunteers, Military Intelligence had decided to recruit from the Airborne Forces, since a selection process eliMi¤ating all but the most intelligent and highly motivated officers had already been performed.
Captain McGuire did not believe that Military Intelligence would be crippled if Second Lieutenant Pelosi did not join its ranks. Able Company, however, needed him. He possessed a quality of leadership that McGuire to a large degree found missing in his other lieutenants.
McGuire was therefore determined to retain at all costs the services of Second Lieutenant Pelosi in Able Company.
First he tried to counsel the young officer, suggesting to him that he could make a greater contribution to the war effort right here in Able Company than he could reading the Vatican news-paper behind a desk someplace. When that failed (Pelosi was polite but adamant), McGuire wrote what he frankly thought was a masterful 1st Indorsement to Pelosi's application for transfer, outlining his present value to Able Company and his potential usefulness in the future, and recommending that for the good of the service, the application should not be favorably considered.
W E B Griffin - Honor 1 - Honor Bound Page 2