American Under Attack

by Jeff Kildow

  Finally, the last aircraft detached from the tanker fueling it. The tanker turned toward Spain. The formation was in excellent condition.

  “Navigator, give me the heading for New York City,” he said a bit theatrically. Projekt Rheinwasser was finally underway.

  Aboard Rheinwasser One

  The radio operator turned to von Schroeder with a look of satisfaction. “I have just received the transmission from the submarine, Herr Oberst. We will encounter a cold front approximately two hours prior to landfall, with some turbulence and possible rain. After that, smooth sailing on to New York.”

  “Ah,” von Schroder responded, “this is good. You will contact the others with the low power set and inform them.” Von Schroeder said to his co-pilot who was flying, “Now I shall take some rest. You will awaken me when you have flown for six hours.”

  He turned, and made his way to the bunk, slipped off his shoes, and laid down. He immediately sat up again; the doctor had warned him to take a pill. He found the vial, and swallowed the medicine. In moments, he was asleep.

  Chapter 51

  Friday, 1 October 1943

  Base Operations, Millville Army Air Field, New Jersey

  0730 Hours

  Flight Preps

  Lieutenant Colonel Joel Knight walked into base ops and went to the weather desk. “Good morning, sergeant! What’re you weather-guessers saying about tomorrow morning?” he said cheerfully.

  The young sergeant forced a laugh, “Where are you going, sir?” he asked.

  “Over to the coast, then up north toward the Twin Lights – I’ll be flying an AT-6. I plan to leave early.”

  The sergeant consulted his charts.

  “Sir, if you leave early, before 0700, you should be in good shape. There’s a storm moving through tonight, but in the morning, it will be just high, thin clouds moving out to sea. Along the coast you should have filtered to bright sunlight once the light overcast burns off, probably before 0800. Then the cloud cover, such as it is, will be 15,000 to 20, 000 feet, and moving out to sea. Surface temperatures will be around forty-eight degrees. Winds should be out of the north – northwest at zero to ten knots. I assume you’ll be flying fairly low, sir?”

  “Yes,” Joel replied, “below 5,000 feet most of the time, and down on the deck for the photographs.”

  “You shouldn’t have any problems, Colonel. Remember the Navy has their sub chasing blimps moving out to sea around that time, flying out of Lakehurst. There is often other traffic out of Lakehurst, too; F6Fs, PBYs, and the like. Be sure and check in with their controller if you get closer than five or six miles. The morning hours should be just fine. I’ll caution you, though, sir, that late afternoon looks a bit unsettled – looks like there’s a small cold front moving down from the Buffalo area. We might get some light wind and maybe a couple of little showers, but it won’t last long. Probably after 1600, I’d say.”

  “Oh, we’ll be back long before that,” Joel said. He finished his notes, thanked the man, and stepped next door to the scheduling desk, to reserve an airplane.

  A Tech Sergeant looked up, and greeted him, “Good morning, Colonel Knight! Do you need a bird?”

  “I sure do, sergeant!” he replied, “I need a ‘T-6 early tomorrow morning.”

  Like most Army Air Forces bases, Millville kept several aircraft on hand for miscellaneous duties, from flight officers logging their required monthly hours, to training and courier missions, and other errands. Along with other aircraft, Millville had a pair of new North American AT-6 trainers. Powered by a 450 horsepower Pratt and Whitney R-1340 radial engine, the aircraft transitioned new pilots from smaller trainers into a more sophisticated, powerful, and much larger airplane. Most pilots had fond memories of the gentle, easy flying bird, and even active fighter pilots were known to check out a ‘T-6 for a spin around the field.

  Joel hadn’t flown his minimum number of hours in the past month yet, so he had decided to combine a necessary flight with a personal desire to see some historic lighthouses.

  The Tech Sergeant checked the glass status board showing the serial number of every aircraft assigned to the base, its status, location, and availability. Grease pencil entries kept the status current.

  “Looks like they’re both available, sir – which would you like?”

  “How about 163?” Joel replied. He was familiar with both airplanes, and knew that tail number 163 was the newest, with less than 100 hours on it.

  “It’s reserved for you, sir. What time will you depart?”

  “I’ve planned on a 0700 departure, Frank – can you have it ready for me?”

  “Sure thing, Colonel Knight, shouldn’t be a problem.” He wrote Joel’s name on the board with a grease pencil.

  One more thing, thought Joel as he drove to the maintenance hanger. Inside, he stopped a young mechanic in the hallway, and asked for Master Sergeant Hillborne.

  “Sir, I think you’ll find him out in the hanger, working on that ‘hanger queen’ Jug that’s giving us such fits.”

  Nodding, Joel headed toward the maintenance area.

  Figures, he thought; Hillborne would much rather be out there on the floor actually working on those birds than sitting in his office doing paper work. The thought was in admiration, rather than criticism – Hillborne had a reputation as a hands-on guy who could fix a problem on almost any airplane.

  Sure enough, there was the senior maintenance NCO on the base, with his head deep inside the space behind the engine of a big P-47 fighter. It had earned the nickname Jug because it looked like a milk bottle. Military courtesy was a bit relaxed in designated work areas like the hanger, so the young private who spotted him didn’t call for attention. Instead, he tugged on the burly sergeant’s sleeve, and nodded toward Joel. Master Sergeant Hillborne slipped down off the work stand, wiping his hands as he walked over to greet his boss.

  “Good morning, sir! How can I help you?”

  Joel returned his grin – the two had a good, collegial relationship of mutual respect.

  “Sorry to interrupt all that hard work on the monthly report, Master Sergeant Hillborne!” he said dryly with an arched eyebrow.

  “Sir, the boys had a problem with the supercharger intercooler and relief valve relays, so I was just lending them a hand.”

  “Is that why none of them had to wipe their hands? No bad cylinder nuts on this one, I hope?” Joel smiled.

  Laughing, Hillborne shook his head, “Honest, sir! I was just helping out! And no, this mess doesn’t have that as an excuse; we haven’t found any sabotaged engines on base.” He nodded his head toward the aircraft, “I still think it’s a short in the wire harness; we’ll see.”

  “Good. Just get that report on my desk Monday morning!” he finished with mock seriousness. “Now, what I really came to ask you about is whether you have Ledbetter scheduled for work tomorrow. If you can spare him, I’d like to borrow him for a couple of hours early in the day.”

  “Sure, sir, I don’t see why not. I’ve got plenty of people, and all we’ve got to do this weekend is a couple of 100 hour inspections, and finish trouble shooting that flying mess.” He indicated the airplane behind him. “What’s up, sir?”

  “I’ve gotta get my hours in, and if you remember, I promised my kid sister I’d get some photographs of the lighthouses along the coast for her; thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. And just to make it a package, your boy Ledbetter is writing an article on local lighthouses for the base paper.”

  Hillborne nodded, “Yeah, that should work for everybody. Who’d ever think a girl in Colorado would be so enamored with lighthouses?” he mused.

  “Not me, that’s for sure, but I did promise her.”

  “By the way, sir, that requisition you sent in for the P-61 parts has been approved! All of it! You must be living right. They’re gonna send us engines, props, cowling, even motor mounts. And they’re all the latest stuff, too. That Widow’ is going back into the air. I would’ve never believed it.”<
br />
  “Hey, that’s good news. Be sure and let me know when the parts get here. Now, this jug—.” Changing the subject, they began discussing the problem-prone P-47.

  Sergeant John Ledbetter was supervising a couple of privates changing a fuel filter in a P-47 as Joel walked up. “Morning, Colonel Knight!” he said smiling.

  “Hi, John; Hillborne says I can take you flying with me tomorrow morning, if you’re up to it. I thought we might take in some lighthouses.” Joel told him.

  “Hey, that’d be swell, sir! That would help me on the article I’m writing for the base newspaper on lighthouses, you know?” They’d flown together several times previously, to the young man’s obvious enjoyment.

  “Yes, I remember. I thought we’d go north up the coast and shoot some of the lighthouses along the way, especially the old Twin Lights up north of Fort Monmouth. The weather guys tell me we should have pretty good light – filtered sunlight and high overcast, then clearing.”

  “Say, that sounds like we ought to get some swell pictures, Colonel. I’ve never had a chance to see the Twin Lights yet. What time do you want me at the flightline, sir?”

  Joel briefed him on the planned departure time, and which aircraft they’d be flying.

  Joel’s choice of Ledbetter was no accident. The buck sergeant had been a professional photographer before being drafted. With mind numbing “Army logic,” they’d made him an aircraft mechanic, of course. He acted as Millville AAF’s unofficial social photographer, and it wasn’t unusual for Sergeant Hillborne to be asked for his services. He was in great demand for promotion parties, and birthday parties for the base kids. He had a real knack in the darkroom, too, with the ability to bring out interesting details, and judiciously omit them, as he did when he “fixed” pictures of the commanding colonel’s wife that revealed unflattering wrinkles.

  Chapter 52

  1 October 1943

  Office of the Ministry of Production, Berlin

  Albert Speer’s Office

  0858 Hours

  Alliance of Opposites

  Albert Speer’s secretary barely hid the contempt on her face as she admitted the crippled visitor. “Herr Minister Speer, may I present Herr Doctor Heinz Berthold?” She all but spit the words.

  Berthold ignored her. He was determined to make a good impression on this man, one of the few senior Nazis with any sense, in his opinion. He mentally reminded himself to follow conventional courtesies, no matter how silly they seemed.

  The tall, handsome man was oblivious to his deformities, or at least that was how he acted as he strode across the room to shake Berthold’s hand. His tailored gray wool suit contrasted sharply with the uniformed officers Berthold was used to dealing with.

  “How kind of you to come, Dr. Berthold. I have been anxious to meet you, and to congratulate you on the amazing advances you have made with the Gotha project – what is it called? Oh, yes, Projeckt Rheinwasser. They are underway as we speak, you know.”

  Berthold didn’t know, but didn’t let on. “Yes, this is good, Herr Minister. I wish them every success.”

  Speer regarded him for a moment, then said, “This mission is at best a diversion, of course. If we are fortunate, it may result in a few dozen fighter aircraft held back by the Americans for self-defense. There are far more important steps we should be taking with our aviation assets.”

  Berthold was immediately encouraged; Speer seemed to have a practical understanding of his country’s precarious position. They walked into Speer’s palatial office, Berthold’s cane creaking.

  “I could not agree more, Herr Minister. For example, I would point out that we are manufacturing and supporting far too many different aircraft types. In my opinion, we would do best to concentrate our efforts on a few good ones, and not only discontinue production of the others, but immediately scrap many of the old ones.”

  Speer’s eyebrows went up in surprise and pleasure, from the smile now on his face.

  I think he likes my idea.

  “It would seem, my good doctor, that we are in complete agreement. This has been one of my most vexatious concerns. What types would you discard?” He motioned toward a comfortable leather chair, next to a table laden with pastries and a coffee service.

  Berthold limped to the chair, sat heavily, helped himself to a pastry, and poured them both coffee.

  “I have considered this at length, Herr Minister. Some aircraft that we have in quantity are all but totally useless to us: the Junkers JU-87 Stuka being a prime example. Without total command of the air, it serves only as target practice for enemy fighters. And we seem seldom to have total command of the air,” he observed dryly.

  “I agree. That aircraft is high on my list as well. Would you address me as Albert, please? And may I call you Heinz? If we are to work closely together, formalities will get in the way, don’t you think?”

  Berthold blinked in surprise, this is going far better than I had hoped.

  “Very well, Albert,” Berthold said, an uncommon smile on his face, “another candidate I propose to eliminate is the Messerschmitt ME-110; they are such poor ‘fighters’ that they themselves require an escort! Ridiculous! We might use a few as target tugs to train pilots to shoot. In addition, my view is that only a few of the similar ME-210s are useful either, except for the night fighter variants. The ME-410s, now, especially those with water injection or nitrous oxide, do well as photo-intelligence vehicles, or for other special purposes.”

  He hesitated for a moment, judging his companion. He spoke solicitously.

  “May I be especially bold? Not to pick excessively on Messerschmitts, but many older ME-109s barely hold their own against even older Allied types. And they require far too much maintenance. We ought, I believe, to relegate a few of the best of them to training, and replace the remainders with new production aircraft, such as the Focke Wulf FW-190D, or the Tank TA-152, or the TA-153, as fast as we are able. Furthermore,” he said, thinking, now I shall push the boundaries. “I think production of the ME-109 should cease at once.”

  “Herr Messerschmitt might take exception to that, Heinz.” Speer said blandly, as he sat back in his chair; his expression unsearchable.

  In spite of himself, Berthold burst out, “Perhaps Herr Messerschmitt should be reminded that he is permitted to manufacture aircraft, and also to earn a profit, only at the pleasure of the state. He is a greedy fool. And do you know this?”

  Berthold leaned forward, pointing his finger, “Our ‘patriotic’ Willy Messerschmitt earns more than two times as much profit from each of his obsolete ME-109s as he does from a Me-262 jet. Of course he wants to keep building them! He should be ordered to build what we say, or have the State take control of his facilities, as we did with Junkers.” Berthold mentally held his breath, wondering, what have I done now? How will he take this?

  Speer smiled thinly; his voice was cold; “It would seem you understand the situation precisely, my dear Heinz,” he said.

  “Messerschmitt’s facilities should be dedicated to production of the ME-262 only, and its successors,” Berthold said flatly. “Excess capacity should be put to use building sections of the Gothas, as well as the advanced FW-190Ds.”

  Speer nodded agreement as he made precise notes with an expensive English fountain pen, “I suspect that direction would rankle Herr Messerschmitt as well, but your idea is sound. I will direct that it happens.

  “Tell me about this building of aircraft in sections one place and assembling them at another.”

  “This is not my original idea, Herr Speer, but rather the American industrialist Henry Kaiser. He builds his ‘Liberty’ cargo ships – do you know them? – in sections or parts manufactured at different locations. This concept would allow us to build portions of the Gotha in smaller facilities, and only bring them together to assemble the whole aircraft. It scatters our factories, and should greatly complicate our enemy’s attempts to destroy them.”

  “Remarkable. How do you assure the parts built in sepa
rate locations will fit?”

  Berthold tapped his right index finger into his left palm. “They must all work from identical drawings, Herr Speer. Not so simple as it sounds, but it can be done.”

  “You will please provide a paper describing this to my office at once; if it is approved, we shall put it into force immediately. We may be able to use the technique to advantage on other projects as well.”

  Changing the subject, Speer said, “Now then, Heinz, how would you suggest we take advantage of the aircraft we no longer need?”

  Berthold spread his hands, internally grateful that Speer hadn’t risen in defense of the nation’s most prolific aircraft builder. Despite himself, his emotions drove him.

  “We have been stupid! Our approach to aircraft recovery and reuse of materials has been haphazard, at best, Albert. What a waste! We fail even to make good use of the enemy aircraft that fall on our soil. We are wasting the very materials that are in shortest supply!”

  He smacked his hand for emphasis. “If that effort were to be properly organized, in combination with the new flow of raw materials through Spain, I believe that we could substantially increase the production rates of those types we continue to build. Let me show you the plan to correct this.”

  Speer raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  Apparently, he did not expect such preparations, Berthold thought smugly. The man who has a plan, no matter how poor, is always ahead of he who has none, he told himself.

  The two men bent over the document for more than an hour. In the end, Speer had agreed with nearly all of Berthold’s recommendations, to his gratification.

  “What new aircraft do you recommend? There are so many being offered, and we dare not choose the wrong ones,” Speer asked him a little more warmly than earlier, as they refreshed their coffee cups.