Paul Adkins

by Foresight America

  “That’s it, skipper.” The first officer called from the wing of the bridge.

  “High tide on thirty minutes, let’s clear the dock. Cast off your lines.”

  The ship was docked with her bow seaward so leaving the pier was so straightforward that the skipper walked through the ship checking for unsecured hatches or any yet-undiscovered mistake from the shipyard.

  “OK?” the first officer asked when he returned to his bridge.

  “Lonely down there,” came the reply, “do we have everybody?”

  “Checked them in myself. Harbormaster has us going to anchor off Tom Island.”

  The ship handled well, even when laden. She pulled in next to the Liberty Kansas and settled in for the night.

  “I have to meet with the Commodore tomorrow afternoon, they’ll send a boat.”

  The first officer was skeptical. “Waste of time, we could be well to sea by then.”

  “New way of doing business, the British need this stuff and would rather wait a few days and make sure they get it.”

  “Being so close to so many other boats. Not how we are used to sailing. Old dogs, new tricks. Never a good combination.” He had a point, except for three apprentices, the entire crew were over aged.

  The captain agreed, “We have to keep a close lookout, we can take care of ourselves, but it is those other fools I worry about.” He waved an arm toward to the gathering of miscellaneous shipping.

  “I’d rather take my chances with the u-boats.”

  Chapter 14 Russia

  The German spearheads came on relentlessly. Weeks of combat had earned the tankers hundreds of kilometers and dozens of victories. But beyond each kilometer they found thousands more; and after each clash was another battle. The Russian steppes stretched endlessly ahead.

  A Russian colonel crouched in a drainage ditch alongside a major railroad leading east from Leningrad.

  A crew from the All-Union Railroad Ministry had removed the rails three days before. The plain looked featureless on a map or from the air, but in truth small depressions and elevations made for a complex local topography a defender could exploit. He hoped. But at present, the landscape simply prevented him from seeing a damn thing.

  He heard a sharp crack off to his left, his southern flank. He turned to his signals officer “Anything from the 331st?”

  The captain shook his head.

  “Get them on the line then.”

  “Fascist scout cars are being engaged in south avenue of approach. The antitank guns have driven them off.”

  “Order the guns to move to alternate positions now. No excuses.” He turned to his map and checked the thick red lines of friendly forces for the thousandth time. He walked to the top of the embankment.

  Four plumes of smoke marked the first engagement.

  “Artillery landing on the position, they got away, comrade colonel.”

  The division commander nodded. It was critical to preserve the slow-moving and hard-hitting guns.

  The lead element of the panzer column had performed its duty; it found the Red defenses. The fact that its four armored cars were destroyed was secondary in the calculation. Now it was time to find the enemy strength. The regimental commander leaned over his map. He knew were his reconnaissance element had been, he drew a finger to the east. “Artillery here, now,” he ordered. In seven minutes the mobile guns began a ragged reply. “Move up the third company, dismounted attack,” it was a fool’s game to send APCs in to attack antitank guns. “Swing the tank company to the south. Do not move in until I give the word.” The commander opened the elongated hatch covering the rear of his armored command post. He waited until he heard the snap of automatic weapons in the middle distance. “Tell the tanks to go in.”

  The Russian infantry laid low in the now-empty gun positions. Most had already been in a dozen routs.

  This one would be different. Soon a fast German machine gun opened up, just as the incoming artillery began to zero in on their position. As expected the invaders came in on foot. They did not find the expected 100cm guns, but instead a mass of entrenched infantry.

  The Russian guns had almost set up in their alternate pits when the panzers roared in from the south.

  Eleven Pz IVs marked the formation as the remnants of a tank company. The five guns fired as one, their blast igniting the tall grass to their front. The battery commander was killed almost at once trying to get the sixth gun into action, not that his death mattered. No central control would have been possible as the guns crews worked with demonic energy to save their guns and themselves. The last tank made it to less than a hundred meters from their position.

  The division commander plotted the sharp regimental action and asked permission to sweep south of the rail line, to try to flank the defenders. Permission was granted and the entire corps shifted slightly to the south moving with considerable speed directly into an ambush.

  “Now what?” Winston asked.

  “The Soviets have made a stand. Radio Moscow is announcing a victory.” Tom replied. He had been up all night and had collapsed in a leather chair. “Read it yourself.”

  “Where is this?”

  “Center of the map, I marked it with a star.”

  Winston put down his coffee, “This is not anyplace I ever heard of. Well west of Moscow and Leningrad. What happened?”

  Tom got back on his feet. “Seems they defended some rough patch to encourage the Germans to use a more open area and let them run into a series of fortified lines.”

  “Tanks?”

  “Soviet ones? Not that they are crowing about anyway.”

  Larry Orbino came in from the kitchen, “People are telling me that a static defense doesn’t have a chance against a blitz, maybe their wrong.”

  Winston shook his head, “This is just a bump in the road to Moscow, but look,” he indicated the map again, “this is the first real fight the Russians have put up in a month and a half. This must mean their frontier units still have some scrap left in them. We only have German reports they were routed. It seems to me they may have retreated in some sort of good order.”

  Stalin strode into the conference room above his little office. “Well?”

  “Thirtieth Army has smashed at least one Fascist corps, Comrade Stalin. We estimate they will pause for at least a week to resume the attack.”

  “Plan on three days, if I know these bastards,” Zhukov added from behind the briefing officer.

  “Three days. What of Thirtieth Army?”

  “Wrecked, Comrade Stalin.”

  “Withdrawal them to Leningrad to refit as a guards army. We will need some units with a little tenacity there. And your troops, Comrade Marshal?”

  “Well behind, just north of the salient, Comrade Stalin, the vehicles are sheltered from observation in a network of deep stream banks. We are unobserved.”

  “Nothing can happen while these fucks have the air. I want the partisans in the Pripet Region to activate and destroy enemy technical bases and installations.”

  “They will be destroyed Comrade Stalin,” a NKVD colonel warned.

  “We must gain some sort of air parity, we will exchange the partisans for that. We must take the,” he paused to find the word, “initiative in the northern sector. Now is the time to begin.”

  Orders went out from Moscow to secret places deep in the forests and swamps by radio to begin operations at once.

  The corps commander was humbled by stumbling into a Soviet trap, strangely the High Command did not sack him, but instead gave him a fresh division to replace one especially badly hurt and brought the other units almost back up to full strength. Four days of rest allowed the mechanics to repair some of the wear and tear on the vehicles. All in all, the corps was stronger now than before and ready for revenge.

  It weighted the main effort, the center of gravity to the southern end of the obdurate defenses and hit them with everything it had. The line cracked and the gray tracked vehicles turned north to roll up
the hapless defenders.

  Traffic regulation troops had marked the routes across the countryside with white tape. Periodically a lone soldier with a subtle flashlight waved the T-34s out of their hiding places and south into the empty flank of the German attackers. Suddenly when the troop commander looked up from his hatch he saw he was alone. For two hours his ten tanks had been part of a mighty stream, now they were in the lead of the entire attack and surrounded only by darkness. “Here we go lads,” he called over his internal radio net. One had to say something in these situations after all. A nearby tank commander clasped one hand to his earpiece and waved with the other. His T-34 ran over a shallow embankment and fell out of sight.

  “Machine gun fire on the left,” a voice called. The caller did not use his identification, but the commander knew it was Rostov in tank six. He swung his tank toward the action, sweeping by two more of his vehicles on his way to see what was going on.

  The three tanks saw a stream of German tracer fire reaching out to their left. “Gunner, shotgun, 200

  meters, aim and fire.” Three hundred ball bearings shattered the machinegun nest and scrambled the four defenders who never even saw their attacker. “Accelerate, don’t let them draw a bead on us,” the commander took a few moments to consult his map by the light of the early dawn and composed his contact report. He was brought back to reality by a second loud crack from his main gun. He saw a truck explode in flames. They had reached the road already. “Right turn, keep moving.”

  The road was crammed with a convoy of trucks heading to the front. First a one then another and soon a dozen exploded in front of the powerful cannon. One tank commander seemed to tire of shooting at the helpless vehicles and drove onto the road itself and began pushing and crushing the Mercedes into scrap metal. That ended when three tons of ammunition exploded in his face.

  As the element of surprise was lost, the defense stiffened. The tankers dropped deeper into their armor and closed the heavy hatches. Rifle and machine gun fire rattled off the heavy vehicles meaninglessly. A volley of panzerfaust rockets came from one location, only one finding a target. A special prize was some sort of command post, a jumble of tents and personnel carriers. A gray wraith fired a rocket and another vengeful Russian tank was destroyed.

  It was heady, silly, like being drunk or in love for the first time. The Russians charged on, scattering the hated invaders like chickens running from a farmer’s axe. Crewmen laughed as they fired machine guns into their fleeing enemies. They passed a burning village and followed the supply route into a shallow valley.

  There they met a battalion of Panzer Vs who destroyed them in less than a minute.

  “So in conclusion, mein Fuhrer, they managed to flank the northern corps of the Leningrad thrust, Army Group North. Casualty estimates are coming in, but they seem to have focused on our trains.”

  “Trains?” Hermann asked.

  “Supply units,” the colonel clarified, “Once our combat elements were in place, they were quickly defeated.”

  “You are not seeing the big picture here,” Hitler began, “you are seeing too many details. The Reds managed to attack our supply lines along,” he looked at the map, “three hundred kilometers. Airbases raided, formations ambushed, telephone lines cut. We cannot get to the Urals like this, we must have secure lines. As a combat action, this battle may be the bright burst from a light bulb just as it burns out.

  Their units seem to be shattered, but if we allow these bandits a free reign in our rear we will be in trouble.”

  Himmler offered his help, “This could not happen with the cooperation of the Slav population in these areas. The security elements have been on a short chain due to Professor Hermann’s sensibilities. If we are now seeing the end of combat activities, perhaps it is time to enforce order in our new territories.”

  Hermann shivered, the man was reptilian.

  “Very well, move your special operations units into place and commence operations at once. We must clear these areas now or later. Now is better as it serves both our military and other purposes.” Hitler turned his attention to the fighting in the south.

  Each of the ten partisans carried two landmines in cheap cloth knapsacks. After a night march through across the barren steppe, they holed up for the day near the top of a steep overgrown draw. Posting a solitary guard, the sergeant returned to his men and found them already asleep. He joined them in the soft, rich earth.

  He was awakened by the faint sounds of gunfire in the distance. The sound was sharp and fast; they were not Soviet weapons. He grabbed his stubby machine pistol and returned to his lookout. “What?”

  The soldier nodded silently, indicating the horizon. A village was on fire, the smoke blowing in their direction. It was too far off to see people. But it was easy to see the half-dozen German vehicles lined up on two sides of the hamlet. As partisans watched, the vehicles advanced on the buildings, the distant roar of their engines punctuated by the ripping-cloth sound of the quick-firing German machine guns.

  It was time for a lesson for the scared young lookout. “You hear that? That is the MG 42 machinegun, it sounds different from our stuff.” They stood together for a few minutes.

  “Where is the sound of the Soviet soldiers Comrade Sergeant?”

  “There do not seem to be any Soviet soldiers down there,” the sergeant said half to himself.

  “What is that smell?”

  “Go get your relief, wake up Goodonov. Go get some sleep.” He would explain what burned flesh smelled like before they moved down in that direction tonight.

  Chapter 15 Pearl Harbor

  Nobody west of Washington knew of the planned attack on Pearl Harbor. The tension among the team grew as the calendar drew nearer to the ‘Day of Infamy’. A more than a month before the planned attack, they moved as a group to Campobello, the Roosevelt estate in New Brunswick. In self-imposed isolation, they stewed and fretted over their decision.

  “Let’s review the overall situation” the newly-promoted Brigadier General Orbino spoke over the breakfast table.

  “Again?” several of the group moaned as one.

  “We are nearly at a war footing already,” Hereford was speaking for ‘his’ navy. “The carriers are transporting the last air wings into Pearl and Manila now. The Marines are still on the mainland, we have time for them to move later. On Saturday the sixth we will have a major life-fire exercise that will get cancelled for obscure reasons and then we’ll nail the Japanese first wave.”

  “The Air Corps is fully modernized. Our first-generation bomber, the B-17 is in full service and the B-29 has entered full production. In fact, the Liberator line is converting to B-29s now, so fielding should accelerate.” Tom limited his reply to his service. “The only thing still pending is any sort of operational jet, but the Mustang and Lightening will hold us until them.”

  Larry answered his own question for the army, “The Shermans are out to all the units in required strength, but we are behind on the APCs and other tracked support vehicles. The Pershings are entering production, but production of those APCs and other variants won’t even begin until the end of next year.

  Bazookas and small arms we all know about. Now what else?”

  “The Codetalkers?” Winston asked.

  “Now going out to the units, no longer a secret.” Larry replied.

  “Torpedoes, again?” the time traveler continued.

  “Live-fire tested, again, as each new model has come out.” Robert replied.

  “Shipbuilding in general?” Winston rubbed his eyes, the past weeks have been very stressful. They knew that Pearl Harbor would be attacked in five week’s time, but could not tell the soldiers and sailors in Hawaii. The moral consequences were overwhelming.

  “No problem at all with the Liberty ships, we are now up to the third major upgrade, not that you can tell by looking at them. The last carrier just got its canted flight deck a couple of months ago, Our cruiser hulls still building have been changed to carri
ers, as has the USS Kentucky battleship. We have kept that under wraps. The frigates are all with the fleet. We will start moving ships from the Atlantic through the canal in the next few weeks.” Robert was confident.

  “How are the British doing?” Winston asked.

  “Well,” Robert rubbed his amble belly, “very well. The Provisional French have retained all the colonies, the Germans could not even set up a Vichy state but have found lots of local supporters. The Brits have Norway and have the U-boats under control so far. Still the Luftwaffe is hitting their ports pretty hard.”

  “Are the hitting back?” Winston already knew the answer.

  “Some,” Tom replied, “but this time around Coastal Command has priority and Bomber Command is too small to do much until we get there.”

  “Anything unexpected, any loose ends?” Winston wanted to sum up. He found long walks in the nearby pines the best solution to thinking too much.

  “Couple, we have not been able to break the Japanese codes as we should have been able to do. The Italians did not attack France; we suspect Hitler rubbed Mussolini the wrong way. Relations between the Italians and Berlin are pretty darn cool. The Germans seem to have stopped the Italians from going into Greece. Russia is moving along as you predicted, but Khrushchev is nowhere to be seen. The units that aren’t falling back are being encircled. Huge war out there.”

  A waiter brought a telephone with a very long cord to Larry. “The President for you, sir, it is urgent.”

  Winston wondered if a call from the President could be anything but urgent.

  “General Orbino, sir.” He then took the receiver and held it at arm’s length.

  “I just got the news, did you hear?” Roosevelt’s voice carried to all at the table. “The Japanese have just hit us at Pearl Harbor.”