by Jeff Kildow
He continued, “A flat cardboard panel, covered with grey felt, matching the inside of the briefcase covers it.” He set the panel and pine slab in place. “The trigger wire is hidden in the lining of the briefcase; a slit in the seam permits access. Anyone looking inside the briefcase would see exactly what they expect – the bottom of the case,” he finished.
Von Stauffenberg carefully performed some more tests, again using the flashlight bulb, convincing them again that the device would work. “This will do nicely,” he said nodding. The doctor beamed.
“Should we really use all six sticks of dynamite?” asked the mayor.
“Let’s be sure we get the job done,” von Stauffenberg insisted firmly “God help us if we only wound him.” They nodded in grim agreement.
Their weapon prepared, they now had to seek out the time and place to best use it. Several weeks passed.
“We have our opportunity,” Oberst von Stauffenberg, newly promoted to Colonel, told them. “There is to be a conference in the Russian woods – what foolishness! – where Hitler will meet and ‘confer’ with his generals. General Hoepner will attend, and I am to brief the Führer myself, on recruitment and training issues. Well, my friends, I shall do my best. I have arranged for a telephone call to take me from the meeting, at which time I’ll set the timer,” he said. “If we don’t see each other again, God be with you all.” They all murmured solemn goodbyes.
Chapter 15
6 April 1943
London, England
1700 Hours
Göring’s Demise
“This is the BBC. The Prime Minister’s office at Number 10 Downing Street have informed us that the Reichminister of the Third Reich and Chief of the Luftwaffe Herman Wilhiem Göring has been killed in the crash of a light aircraft. The location and the precise circumstances of the crash have not been announced. Neither was there any indication as to whether the crash may have been the result of combat with Allied aircraft.
“It has been widely assumed that the Reichminister was to have been the successor to Chancellor Hitler in the event of the latter’s demise; it is not clear to whom that honor will now fall. In addition, speculation is rife as to who might follow him as head of the German Luftwaffe, but no announcement has been made as of the time of this broadcast.
“In further news on the European front,—”
Chapter 16
7 April 1943
Millville Army Air Field
Millville, New Jersey
Base Theater, Building 68
0730 Hours
Commander’s Call
There was a low buzz of conversation as the officers waited for the meeting to begin.
Base commander Lieutenant Colonel Tarleton H. Watkins called his officers together regularly to pass down the latest news from the Army Chief of Staff, and to discuss the problems or achievements of their units.
The door at the rear opened with deliberate noise, and First Sergeant Blaisdel shouted “Atten-shun!” The men sprang to their feet at attention, almost by reflex, conversations ended mid-word. The Colonel strode to the front, looked at his men for a moment, then commanded, “At ease. Be seated, gentlemen.”
Taking his place behind a wooden lectern, he began to systematically address each of the items on the list that First Sergeant Blaisdel had prepared. Most of the information was old hat, things they had all heard through the grapevine days before.
“It’s possible that General Ernst Udet may take over Göring’s place; that’s not good news for the Allies because he has a pretty fair understanding of modern air tactics, unlike fat Herbert. The bomber commander, General Weaver, is pushing for a major expansion; Intel is that he’ll probably get it. He’s got the Brits plenty worried.”
Listening with half an ear, Major Joel Knight was mentally reviewing a duty roster issue he needed to resolve.
“Finally, gentlemen, as you know, the Third Bond Drive is officially underway, and we’re going to do another round of ‘penny’ bond drives at the local schools.”
“Penny bonds” was how Watkins characterized the bonds bought with the pennies, nickels, and dimes contributed by school kids. Generally, not a lot of money was raised this way, but it served two useful purposes: it gave the kids a sense of participation in the war effort, and it was good publicity for the Army to be out among the citizens. The comment was greeted with some groans and muttered comments, which the Colonel silenced with a single glance over the top of his reading glasses.
“This time, we’ll do it differently – instead of your senior noncoms, I want each squadron commander and his deputy to take a school. As it turns out, the number of elementary and junior high schools nearby neatly matches the number of commanders and deputies, so nobody gets left out! First Sergeant Blaisdel has the assignments. We’ve already announced this to the newspapers, so you’re on the hook. And unless you’re on your deathbed, nobody is skipping out on this! We’ve got War Department movies for each of you to show – they run about ten minutes, and then you’ll convince the kiddies that the war will grind to a halt without every one of their pennies.”
After he answered a few questions, the sergeant again called the room to attention, and the Colonel departed.
“Sirs, if you will kindly come forward with your deputies, I’ll give you your school assignment.”
“Blaisdel, I see your grubby mitts all over this!” a squadron commander growled.
“Why, sir, whatever do you mean?” Blaisdel responded with such feigned innocence and fluttering eyelashes that they all laughed.
Joel shuffled forward and received his “assignment”: Alexander Hamilton Junior High, in Stanton Township. He knew the town; it was five or six miles from the base, on the winding rural roads in this part of New Jersey. He had the address, directions from the base, and the principle’s name and phone number. His assigned date was a week from Wednesday, which he knew conflicted with his monthly currency flight. Well, that won’t be the first time that had to be changed.
When he returned to his office, he called the principle of Alexander Hamilton Junior High School. Mr. Theodore Kneebone seemed a kindly man, though his slightly quavering voice betrayed his age even over the phone.
“I would be delighted to have a squadron commander address my students, Major Knight,” he said. They agreed on the time, and Joel made a note in his daily schedule, making sure to tell his sergeant. Joel discussed his idea of offering a prize for the best class participation, and the older man agreed enthusiastically.
Chapter 17
12 April 1943
Alexander Hamilton Junior High School
Stanton Township, New Jersey
0730 Hours
Bond Drive
Joel left early in the freshly washed and waxed Packard, partly because he wasn’t completely sure of the way, but truthfully, because he hated being late anywhere. That was one of the things they pounded into you at the Academy. Besides, it was a good excuse to drive his “new” car. He had chosen his freshly cleaned dress uniform, with green blouse and “pink” trousers. He carefully aligned his ribbons on the left breast of the blouse, and put a shiny pair of wings above them. His service cap, of course, had that calculated, crumpled look resulting from wearing radio headphones; no Army pilot worth his salt would think of wearing anything else!
He was nearly to the Stanton Township city limits when he heard a siren; a motorcycle cop. Dutifully, Joel pulled over, expecting to see the motorcycle go around him. Now what, he wondered.
The cop was middle-aged, and not smiling.
“Where’s your gas ration sticker, Bud?” he demanded.
Joel glanced at the windshield; yes, the little sign was still there. He pulled it off, and handed it to the officer.
“Official Government Business, officer,” he said smiling.
The cop seemed to suddenly realize Joel was in uniform, “Oh, sorry, sir. I didn’t see your sign. Where are you headed?”
“I’m giving a speech at Alexander Hamilton
Junior High, if I can find it,” Joel said.
“Just follow me, Major,” the cop said, smiling now, “I’ll escort you.”
Off they went, the siren on the motorcycle wailing.
Oh, great; they’ll either think it’s an emergency, or that somebody important is coming, he groused.
The cop got him to the school ten minutes early, and he pulled into the parking lot. The cop waved, and motored off. The school was one of those imposing stone structures built in the early 1900s, whose very look conveyed seriousness. These days, though, it had an old-fashioned sense of weariness about it.
He couldn’t help noticing that there were few cars in the parking lot, and those that were there were older, inexpensive models. There was even a Model T sedan. There were kids playing on the athletic field – it must be recess, he thought. They stopped their games and stared at the Packard.
They must think I’m a big shot or something, with that police escort, Joel thought.
Inside, Mr. Kneebone greeted him warmly. He was in his late seventies, with a white ring of hair around the back of his head. He was slightly stooped over, making his five foot, six inch height seem shorter. His gray eyes were clear, and full of intelligence.
Joel noticed that his tweedy suit was years out of date, giving him a slightly rumpled look, and his wide, bright tie might have been in style in the 1920s. A lot of older men like him had been called out of retirement to take the place of draftees. Kneebone introduced him to the ladies of the office staff. While they spoke, Joel heard a bell ring, ending recess, he decided. He showed Mr. Kneebone the film can and asked about a projector, and someone to run it. Kneebone quickly dispatched a student to bring the school projectionist to the auditorium.
“Well, it’s time, I’m afraid. This way, if you please, Major,” the principal said, looking at the oak schoolhouse clock. They walked down the hallway which glowed with old polished wood on the floors and lower walls.
As Joel and the principle walked onto the wooden stage, he saw students being led into the big room by their teachers. Many were middle-aged ladies, who hurried their charges along with self-important authority. Here and there, though, Joel saw younger women.
In the two years I’ve been in New Jersey, seems like all I see are peroxide blondes or brunettes. No red heads, he thought idly. And I can’t stand the peroxide blondes – they always look so phony; aren’t there any natural blondes around here?
As the classes came in, he abruptly noticed one young woman who clearly was a natural blonde – even standing on stage, he could see her strikingly blue eyes; her complexion was clear and white. Where the older women looked somewhat frumpy, she was wearing a crisp, starched white blouse and a stylish blue wool skirt.
For an instant, she looked right at him and smiled, showing perfect, white teeth. Joel felt an electric shock. Time seemed to stop, then she looked away. Joel realized he’d been holding his breath.
Well, now! I’ve gotta find out who she is! he said to himself, surprised at his own reaction.
The 300 youngsters seemed to be glad for the time away from their studies, but some appeared to be interested in what Joel might have to say.
Mr. Kneebone clapped his hands loudly, twice, “Quiet, please!” The murmur of voices and scuffling feet quickly faded away.
“Children, today we have a speaker from Millville Army Air Field, who is going to show us a brief movie, then speak to us all about the new Third Bond drive. He is a pilot and squadron commander there. Please welcome U.S. Army Air Forces Major Joel Knight.”
The applause was polite. After thanking them, Joel gave a brief introduction to the film, and asked for it to be run. It differed little from most War Department films – it was both uninspired and unimaginative. Thankfully, it was also mercifully short. The kids were restless, especially toward the end, and he knew he’d have his hands full convincing them to contribute. He hoped the little prize he’d cooked up would help.
“OK, thank you for your attention, boys and girls,” he began. “This Third Bond Drive will be a lot like the other ones, but this time, there will be a special prize. We’ll talk about that later. First, I’d like to answer any questions you have.”
There was a short silence, and then one of the younger boys raised his hand. Joel pointed at him, “Yes, sir, what would you like to know?”
“You don’t talk like us, Major; where’re you from?” The distinctive New Jersey accent pervaded even the simple question.
“Well sir, I was born and raised out West, in Colorado.” Now he had their attention; in this era, few had been outside their own state, and none had ever been west of the Mississippi.
“Were you a cowboy?” the same youngster asked, somewhat in awe.
Joel chuckled; “Well, sir, I was raised on a ranch, but my dad never thought I was much good at wrangling cows!”
Joel knew that cowboys and the West fascinated most of the kids and they all followed the adventures of their favorite cowboy in the movies or on the radio. Even the older, more “sophisticated” kids were listening now.
“So, where’s your ranch, and what’s your brand?” asked a serious looking boy, testing him.
“It’s my dad’s ranch, son. It’s about twenty miles from the small town of Calhan, north-east of Colorado Springs. Our brand is a capital K with a knight’s lance on the end of the upright on the K, setting on a rocker; we call it the Rocking K.”
“Do you have a horse?” a girl asked eagerly.
“Oh, yes. Or I should say, I used to. I’m afraid he died. Raised him from a colt. He was a nice little paint.”
“What was his name?” shouted another boy.
Joel looked down at the floor and laughed a little. “Well, sir, you’re going to laugh at this. I mean, I didn’t think about a good name like Trigger, or Tony, or Silver. When my dad gave him to me, I was about ten, and at the time, well, I was really fascinated with a neighbor’s old steam car.”
“Oh, no, you didn’t name him Stanley!” a boy shouted.
Shaking his head, Joel admitted it. “Yes, sir, I named him Stanley!” The room erupted with laughter. “Stanley, the horse!”
1010 Hours
The Prize
Standing along the wall, Susan Johansseson listened carefully to the handsome Army officer. He was slender, tall and had a quiet sense of self-confidence about him. His hair was short, and looked like it might have been blonde before it changed to the light brown she saw.
He has a special way with the kids, she thought. He’s respectfully answered every question, even called the kids “sir” or “ma’am.” It’s plain that he likes kids and they are responding to him unusually well. His sense of humor is self-deprecating; what a refreshing change from the egotistical pilots I’ve met before. How interesting; a man who isn’t one-dimensional. And he’s not a kid, she thought, remembering the twenty-year-old pilots she’d met.
The questions from the kids quickly covered what sorts of cowboy activities he’d done.
“I have ‘rodeoed’ some,” he told another girl. “I tried bucking broncos, and got tossed right off, I’ll tell you! In the kid classes, I did pretty well in steer wrestling; truth be told though, they were really calves! I was always a pretty good rider, so I tried barrel racing – do you know what barrel racing is?” The number of “no’s” told him he’d need to explain, which he did.
“Did you win?” another child asked.
“No, I got beat, and would you believe, I got beat by the girls! Boy, they can really ride!” That brought another bout of laughter, especially from the girls.
“What airplanes do you fly?” asked another boy.
“Thanks for that question, sir! Our unit trains new pilots how to shoot targets on the ground and in the air. Right now, we mostly fly P-40 Warhawks, like the Flying Tigers in China. We’re beginning to get the new Republic P-47 Thunderbolt.”
“Is it hard to fly a plane?” asked a shy looking girl near the front.
Joel leane
d toward her conspiratorially, his hand beside his mouth, “Nah, it’s really easy! But don’t tell anybody, ‘cause they’ll stop paying me so much to do it!” he winked at her. The students laughed.
“When did you learn to fly?” asked a bright-eyed boy.
“Well, sir, you might be surprised to know that I learned to fly when I was just a youngster, not a lot older than you. A neighbor was a pilot during the Great War. He bought a brand new war surplus JN-4D Jenny airplane in a crate. Cost him all of $500, and he got an extra engine to boot! Do you all know what a Jenny is?” Most of the kids nodded.
“He offered to take me up, and I loved it. I asked him to teach me to fly. I soloed two weeks after my sixteenth birthday.”
“Did the Army make you learn to fly again?”
“Yes, they did! My civilian experience meant nothing to them, although it gave me an advantage over my classmates. I soloed at Randolph Field, in Texas. And it was just as exciting as when I did it at home.”
The easy banter went on for several minutes.
Finally, Mr. Kneebone stepped forward and held up his hand “Now, children, that’s enough questions for the Major. Let’s have him tell us about the prize he mentioned earlier.”
1022 Hours
Kids and Joel
Joel grinned at the audience, his hands on his hips. “How many have ever flown in an airplane?” he asked. In the whole auditorium, only two hands went up. Anticipation filled the room.
“How many would like to fly in an Army airplane?” Virtually every hand shot into the air.
“I thought so! Now, here’s the story. I talked my Colonel into letting me borrow his airplane; it’s a brand new Beechcraft C-45 Expediter – that’s a beautiful twin engine light transport with two tails like a B-25, which can carry about six people. Each teacher and her class will compete to see who can raise the most money by a week from Friday. But! It has to be coins, and it has to be your own money – no fair asking Mom or Dad!” He shook his finger at them, smiling.