"Josty, how'd it go today?"
"I was off my form personally, but the rest of the Geschwader did well—we probably had fifteen heavies among us."
"You'll get back in the swing of it; it's always tough after a layoff. Flying the 109 after the jets is a terrific comedown, I know. But it shows what we can do if we get enough planes in the air at the same time. We've got to have mass; it's no different than the cavalry days."
"We had mass today. What's up?"
"It looks like we shot down a total of sixty heavy babies. I want a personal estimate from you, right now, can't wait, of how many bombers we would have finished off if we'd had 262s instead of piston-engine fighters."
Josten thought for a moment. "That's easy. Given the same weather conditions, same number of fighters, we'd have shot down at least two hundred of them, maybe more. But you know that yourself."
"Right—but it'll carry more weight if a pilot from one of the successful units says it. Between us, the idiots at Messerschmitt are going around in circles. Now they've got a dozen different experimental variations of the 262 in the works—pressure cabins, rocket boost, more sharply swept wings—and still no production articles! It's as if Hitler's orders meant nothing."
"You better watch what you say—you know the phones are monitored."
"I hope so—the only way to get directly to Goering is have him read the brown sheets from the Forschungsamt, his listening service. With him it's not 'Seeing is believing' but 'Eavesdropping is believing.
Josten cringed. Galland might be able to get away with talk like this, but he wasn't sure of his own safety.
"This points the way to the future, Josty. If we can do this with eight hundred fighters, think what we could do with two thousand, half of them jets!"
"Ein grosse Schlage, the Great Blow, eh?" They had talked about it often in the past, getting enough fighters concentrated over the path of the bombers, hitting them coming in, over the target and going out, then sending long-range fighters to England to harass them in the landing pattern.
"That's it, Josty; once or twice like that, and our American friends will forget about coming over Germany. Anyway, good luck with Eckerle. He's one of the best. Not many like him left. I'll get you back to the 262 program as soon as I can, just as soon as they get some production prototypes flying."
Josten shambled back to his room, at once elated and depressed by Galland's call. It was always good to talk to him, but it was depressing to have the slow rate of progress on the 262 confirmed. There was no excuse for it; the airplanes he and Hafner had cobbled together at Cottbus would have done the job. How much improvement did Messerschmitt think was needed?
Galland's comment about the 109 being a comedown relieved some of his guilt, partially explaining his poor showing today. The tragedy was that they could have had one or two hundred 262s on hand if Hitler had thrown his full support behind them. Hafner could have made fifty or sixty in his factory, and Messerschmitt could have certainly turned out the rest. Instead, both Messerschmitt and Junkers had reverted to their standard work methods, as if there were no war going on. What a day it would have been if they could have had fifty, even! Then the Amis wouldn't have come back, not for months, maybe not ever!
He stood at the dresser, staring in the mirror at his worn face, still grimy after his wash, forcing himself to concentrate on Lyra and the baby. He could see her face clearly, as tenderly beautiful as always. He had not seen the baby yet, not even a picture, but her letters had said that the baby looked like him. It didn't matter who Ulrich looked like, if the three of them could just live through this war. A few more days like today, and he'd have to settle for the two of them living through it.
*
Washington, D.C./November 20, 1943
Washington in wartime was a hustling, overcrowded combination of working, wenching, drinking, and pervasive good cheer—war was hell, but most people were enjoying it.
It was a good thing that he had a red C-sticker for gasoline rationing. Caldwell spent his days driving endlessly between Fort Myers, Boiling Field, and the Pentagon, stroking, cajoling, and entreating, trying to marshal support for a focused attack on the German aviation industry. He could easily have had a staff car, but having a driver—and a record of all the places he visited—cramped his style.
It was like tiptoeing around a land mine. Billions of dollars and billions of words had been spent on airpower—and the bomber offensive in Europe was at a virtual standstill because of the weather. There was tension in the air, and Caldwell had patiently spent his time trying to find the right man to take his message to Hap Arnold. He didn't want to raise the issue personally with Arnold unless he could choose the exact time to do it. The pressures on Hap were so great—and his health so fragile—that a meeting at the wrong time could have backfired.
But now he had it arranged. Arnold had come to lean heavily on the advice of Colonel Bob Ringman, a bright young West Point graduate who'd already put in a combat tour on B-25s. In the course of two meetings and a dinner, Caldwell had let Ringman know what was needed: a change of commanders and a much more aggressive posture in Europe. Ringman had been cautious at first, but by the end of the meal at Harvey's had looked around and whispered, "General, we need to do this for all the reasons you've indicated, but we need to do it for General Arnold's health, too."
Caldwell knew when to be silent.
"Every time Hap"—it showed how close Ringman felt to Caldwell, to call the commanding general by his nickname—"goes in to see General Marshall, he gets asked, 'What did the Eighth Air Force do yesterday?' Most of the time, because of the weather, he has to say, 'Nothing,' and Marshall gives him that frozen-face, eyes-rolled-up glance. Then Hap comes back and fumes at us."
"I know he's really been tough on Ira Eaker—he's getting an ulcer from all the nasty letters Hap sends him."
"Yeah, but Ira isn't tough enough himself." Ringman was calling them all by their first names now. "He hasn't fired the people who are too chicken-hearted to take the losses."
"I understand they're going to move Tooey Spaatz in at the top. Why not move Doolittle up to take command of the Eighth Air Force? He's aggressive, and he doesn't have any attachment to the present commanders. That's the real problem—Ira's too loyal to his people."
"I think Hap would agree with that. But I've got to tell him in such a way that he's sure he thought of it himself."
"I'm sure that you can do that."
Ringman had gone away with several of Caldwell's markers, knowing that they'd come in handy in the future. It was worth it. Ringman represented Caldwell's last desperate throw of the dice.
***
Chapter 11
Stockholm/January 25, 1944
Edvard Munch was dead at eighty. The Swedish papers, all Nazi-baiters now, had more praise for the Norwegian's refusal to cooperate with the Quisling government than for his paintings. It was somehow terribly appropriate, for little Ulrich Helmut Josten, fretting with colic, had been giving his multi-decibel impression of The Scream all night long, keeping Lyra awake and terribly lonely in the igloo-cold apartment. She took some comfort in knowing that they might be both colder and sleeping permanently now if she had remained in Berlin. The RAF had savagely battered the city on the 20th. Most of the rest of her week had been spent trying to get telephone calls through to check on the families of the Legation personnel.
Berlin was being reduced to rubble, with single lanes hacked through the debris-clogged streets for emergency traffic. By now the air raids were "self-adjusting," the explosions from new bombs filling the craters from previous raids. How long could it go on?
Yesterday she'd had a surprise call from Goebbels, who had taken the precaution of having an adjutant get her on the line. Goebbels had spoken hastily and with some confusion. He had assured her that he was all right and inquired about her health and the baby's, cautioning her to stay inside, out of the cold weather. Anyone listening must have thought the child was his. He
certainly knew better than anyone else that the phones were tapped. It was as if he wanted to incriminate himself.
Then, with that eerie insight one has at three in the morning, Lyra realized that it must have been a warning. Goebbels must have some genuine vestige of feeling for her, and he was trying to tell her that her meetings with Madame Kollontay were known.
She pulled Ulrich to her, cuddling him. Were they closing in? No, what nonsense. If she were in danger, Goebbels would never have risked talking to her himself, he could have had someone warn her. And yet . . .
It was all part of the crushing anxiety and guilt she felt. Bruno Hafner was going to visit her apartment tonight. Madame Kollontay was sending a representative, Scriabin, the same man who worked with Caldwell. If the Gestapo knew, they would all die. Her plans for Ulrich were made. Greta had proved to be both an excellent wet nurse and a loyal friend; tonight, she would take Ulrich home with her. If something happened, if Lyra disappeared, Greta knew how to get in touch with the people who were to look after him. As for Helmut, perhaps the fact that she had at last broken with him would help him, deflecting the guilt by association. After all the danger he had exposed himself to, it would be tragic if he died as a result of her actions. But there was nothing else she could do.
At work, she leapt at every ring of the phone; she couldn't eat, and by the time Hafner arrived at nine o'clock that night she was exhausted. He was carried to her door in his wheelchair, murmuring, "I can't climb stairs yet." The two brawny men in shabby civilian clothes with him posted themselves outside her door. At half past, Giorgi Scriabin arrived. She introduced them, and they nodded to the door. She went to stand and wait in the draft-swept hallway, wordlessly freezing with Hafner's bodyguards.
Inside, Scriabin was direct: "Colonel Hafner, first we want everything on your atomic bomb project—heavy water experiments, Heisenberg's work on the atomic pile, everything. That is absolutely first priority. Then anything on jet engines and jet planes. Third in priority are the so-called vengeance weapons."
"I have all you need—engineering drawings, correspondence, test reports, photographs—and much more besides. There is material on the new submarines, on the "snorkel," on poison gases. Plus I have data on most of the leaders of the Reich—diaries, records of conferences, letters."
"We'll get it all eventually, but some we want immediately. What do you want in exchange?"
"I need a safe haven, with my security guaranteed—Switzerland, or perhaps Argentina. If my own assets are not confiscated, I don't need anything else. If they are, I want five million U.S. dollars deposited in a Swiss bank account."
"The first part is easy—the money is not."
"What guarantees do I have?"
"What guarantee could we give but our word? And what are your options after the Americans see the camps at Dachau and Buchenwald? Especially when we point out your feeding experiments with slave labor?"
Hafner shook off the impact of the words like a soccer player recovering from a hard hit. "I understand. What are the terms of the arrangement?"
"We want the most important information we talked about as soon as possible—say within thirty days. And we'd want you to stay undercover and keep us informed on German political intentions. We're more worried about Germany making a separate peace with the Allies than we are about any wonder weapons."
Hafner thought rapidly. This might be to his advantage—who knew how things might develop. But he dissembled, saying, "It's riskier for me—the longer I stay, the greater the chance I'll be caught."
"True. But that's the way it is. And you couldn't be safe anywhere, not as long as the Nazis are in power. They'd have ways to get you in Switzerland, or even Argentina."
They started to shake hands, hesitated, and nodded instead. Scriabin called Lyra in from the hallway.
"We've come to an agreement. Colonel Hafner will provide you with some material by one month from today. You will be instructed on how to deliver it to the Soviet minister."
They were gone as suddenly as they had arrived, and Lyra was alone in the apartment, accompanied only by her guilt and her fear, trying to decide what she would tell Caldwell about the meeting. When the hellish war was finally over, she wanted to take Ulrich to the United States—she would not be able to live in Germany as a traitor and was terrified at the thought of going to Russia. She decided she had to tell Caldwell everything.
*
Castle Coombe, United Kingdom/February 25, 1944
The information from Lyra did not surprise Caldwell. Hafner was on his way to setting some sort of record for treachery. It was probably a simple business precaution to him, like taking out fire insurance. Caldwell was deeply concerned about Lyra's safety—now she was exposed to both the Gestapo and Soviet surveillance. It was time to bring her out of Sweden, along with the baby. She had more than earned it.
But for the moment he had even more pressing issues. He didn't know exactly what Colonel Ringman had told Hap Arnold, but things had moved swiftly. It was rare when things worked out so well and even rarer to be on the spot to see an idea come to fruition exactly the way one wished. He'd had a marathon round of discussions with the staff of the new commander of the Eighth Air Force, Jimmy Doolittle, covering everything from the unsatisfactory performance of the P-38 to the delay on the deliveries of the Mustang. One of the meetings had taken place in Brigadier General Bill Kepner's headquarters at VIII Fighter Command. They were all old friends, but in Kepner's office Doolittle saw a sign reading THE FIRST DUTY OF THE EIGHTH AIR FORCE FIGHTERS IS TO BRING THE BOMBERS BACK ALIVE.
The tiny, pugnacious Doolittle had bridled, jaw going tight, veins pumping, but he said only, "Who dreamed that one up, Bill?"
"The sign was here when I arrived, General."
"Take it down, now, and put up one that reads, 'The first duty of the Eighth Air Force fighters is to destroy German fighters.' "
Kepner eagerly agreed. It was music to Caldwell's ears, confirming that all of his manipulative planning had been worthwhile. It was too bad that Ira Eaker had to be one of the eggs broken making the omelette, but that's the way it was in war. The important thing was the end result, "Operation Argument," a week-long assault on the German aircraft industry and on the Luftwaffe. It could be the answer to his prayers.
Caldwell nervously reread the "invitation" from the Truman Committee to testify in Washington the following month on the performance of McNaughton Aircraft. He didn't have much time to prepare, but he'd gotten off some essential correspondence. In the meantime he found once again that it was tougher to wait on the ground for results than to take part in the raid.
Gloom enshrouded Eighth Air Force Headquarters like a throw over a shabby sofa. Everyone was jumpy, convinced that the disastrous October attack on Schweinfurt had cost the Eighth air superiority. There had been no deep penetrations of Germany since.
Intelligence had reported that the Luftwaffe had used the intervening four months to recuperate. Fighter tactics had been improved and the armament of the Focke-Wulfs had been upgraded. The German Air Force could still muster twenty-two hundred operational fighters, and of these, more than fifteen hundred were allocated to the "Defense of the Reich." That meant that across the vast Russian front and the smaller line in Italy there were less than seven hundred operational fighters, perhaps a fifth of the real requirement, and far too few to be effective.
Caldwell had been in the war room at Castle Coombe all week, trying to help assess the results of Argument as they came in. The air offensive had started out brilliantly, with a successful combination raid by the RAF Bomber Command and the American Eighth Air Force on the Junkers factory at Leipzig. Then four hundred B-17s and 272 B-24s had ranged over Germany, striking at aircraft manufacturing plants, just as he had been demanding for months. But the really important news was that almost nine hundred fighters, including a few of the new Mustangs, had overwhelmed the Luftwaffe, claiming sixty-one victories.
By midweek, the Germans had stif
fened their defense and American casualties rose. Arnold had said he was willing to accept as much as 25 percent losses, because the U.S. could provide replacements, and the Germans could not. Caldwell was estimating that losses would be less than 7 percent—staggering by prewar calculations, but worth it if the Luftwaffe was hammered to its knees.
The night before Caldwell had gone out to Great Ashford, in Suffolk, to be with the 385th Bomb Group again. He had drinks in the Quonset hut that passed as an officers' club, sitting next to the brick wall with the missions proudly labeled on it—Chateauroux, Wilhelmshaven, Rostock, Leipzig, Schweinfurt—each one more dangerous than the last. In the morning, he'd gone to the briefings, noting the anxiety of the crews, watching as they smoked cigarettes and drank coffee out of thick white china mugs. There was some horseplay, a little joking, but most of the men simply sat locked into their private thoughts.
A bombing operation was an elaborate process that began with a flurry of paperwork, rose in scale to industrial proportions in a furious twenty-four hours, then wound down to a few final actions—tailfins being attached to the bombs, mechanics in a swarm over airplanes for last-minute troubleshooting, Thermos jugs being stowed aboard. A mystic quality attended these last efforts, as if each person was trying to impart his personal strength to the airframe itself, blindly willing it to return.
Caldwell had participated in the ceremony, using a rag to polish the already gleaming landing gear oleo struts of Bonnie, the airplane he'd flown in on the Schweinfurt mission.
It worried him that Bonnie's skipper, Chet Schmidt, was haggard and apprehensive, his hands trembling as he chain-smoked, a totally different man than the one he'd flown with just a few months ago. His copilot, McLean, had changed for the better, well enough accepted by the crew to josh Caldwell, telling him. "Wish you were coming with us, General. We could use an old hand on this run." "I understand Chet puts his flak helmet on right away nowadays." McLean blushed, but poor Schmidt couldn't manage a grin, saying, "General, the way those bastards are shooting over there, we need a flak helmet over the whole damn airplane."
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