Morgan checked himself over and found a gash on his forehead that was bleeding all over his face, and a number of burns and bruises on his arms. His shoulder hurt. It might have been dislocated but it had popped back in.
“Hell, I never even noticed it.”
“I’d say you were too busy to think much,” said Stephens, who handed him a cup. “Medicinal brandy. I think you need it.”
Morgan took a swallow and felt its warmth spread through his stomach. Stephens was definitely not a prick. “We going to sink, sir?”
“Nah. My men are plugging the hole and the pumps are working. We’ll be low in the water, but we’ll make it. Fire’s being put out, too. That was never a major threat. Bad news is that we’ve got more than a dozen dead and three times that many wounded. So much for my perfect record. Most of my crew were scared shitless for a bit, and that includes yours truly, but we’ll make it to shore.”
A medic slapped a bandage on Jack’s forehead and wiped the caking blood from his face. “That’s good to hear,” Jack said.
Stephens grunted. “Oh yeah, welcome to France.”
CHAPTER 2
Before he could leave the damaged vessel, Jack was questioned by an American rear admiral about the mine the LST had hit. When Jack insisted that he’d seen torpedo tracks, the admiral had sternly rebuked him. “It was a mine, Morgan. The krauts do not have subs in the English Channel. Do you understand that, Captain?”
When Jack persisted, Commander Stephens had grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away. “Captain, do you recall the story of the emperor’s new clothes, the invisible ones?”
“Of course.”
“Well, you are under navy jurisdiction now and the official line is that there are no U-boats in the Channel. If you persist, the navy will send you to someplace north of Iceland for the duration of the war plus eternity while they pretend to sort this out.”
Jack had a sudden epiphany. He informed the navy brass that, darn, maybe he wasn’t certain it was a torpedo. After all, what did a bomber pilot know about torpedoes and mines?
The investigation quickly ended and Jack was free to go. Stephens again collared him. “If you’re feeling bad about that little lie, don’t. It’s not like it’s going to change anything and it might just help protect our guys if the Nazis don’t know that their U-boat attack was successful. Regardless, the dead are still dead, and the wounded still hurting. Oh yeah, thanks for helping out.”
Jack agreed. Except for the navy’s ego, who the hell cared what the truth was?
The Americans had taken Cherbourg, but the Nazis had blown up everything and destroyed its usefulness as a port. Repairs would take months, which was why the LST had to land on the beach in the first place. Nor had the LST been able to get terribly close as it had taken on a lot of water and everyone who was able to had to wade. The wounded and the dead were taken off by small boats or by medics who waded out with stretchers, but the majority of the soldiers, Jack included, had to walk through cold water that sometimes came over their waists.
The residue of war littered the beaches of Normandy. Burned out tanks and trucks and crushed German emplacements were everywhere as mute testimony to the battle that raged only a few days prior.
As a soggy Morgan walked across the sandy beaches, he had the unpleasant thought that he was treading on dead soldiers who were lying just underneath his water-soaked boots. This, he decided, was hallowed ground, like Gettysburg. He felt inadequate walking there.
A little farther on, the sight of temporary graves did nothing to dispel this feeling and a growing sense of inadequacy. How had he gotten himself into this mess? He should be flying bombers, not walking in sandy muck.
He knew the answer, of course. He’d frozen at the controls of his plane and the copilot, a mere trainee, was forced to land it for him. This happened after seeing one of his friends blown to little pieces when his bomber had crashed and exploded on landing. Jack first thought he could handle it, but he’d been wrong. Thus, he no longer flew bombers and was sent from Kansas to England and now to France. Who needed a pilot who wouldn’t fly? Who would ever trust a pilot who froze up? Funny, but he thought he was over his collapse and could take the controls again, but it didn’t look like he’d get the opportunity anytime soon.
Man-made thunder rumbled in the background as a constant reminder that the Germans were still very close to the beaches at Normandy. Even though the perimeter had expanded eastward, German artillery could still hit many targets inside the perimeter.
He trudged on. His clothing and boots were soggy and he was shivering from the cold, even though it was summer. Soon, he found the tent city that was the replacement depot. It was a confused sea of humanity, all dressed in olive drab. Literally thousands of men were arriving and departing to new units. Morgan was first sent to a clinic where he received some stitches in his forehead along with a fresh bandage. The medic assured him it made him look heroic. Jack told the medic to go screw himself, which the medic thought was hilarious. His bruises and scratches were treated and he was assured that his shoulder was fine but would pain him for a while, which was something he’d already figured out.
He’d recovered his duffle bag, but much of the contents had been ruined by salt water. This meant standing in long lines to get replacement uniforms and equipment. Fortunately, all his personal and official papers, along with his orders, had been in a waterproof envelope. A GI in England had made that suggestion and it turned out to be a damned good one.
The replacement depot was outside the ruined town of Trevieres, a place that would have been unlovely even if it hadn’t been shelled to pieces during the invasion. Jack found a cot in a tent assigned to officers and settled in to wait. He was told not to unpack. He would be out and on his way the next morning. He lay down and wondered if he’d be able to sleep. It proved to be no problem.
Early the next day and after a shower and a bland breakfast, he found himself waiting with a bunch of other officers, most of whom were young and fresh-faced second lieutenants. They looked at him with a degree of wonder.
“Morgan, John C., Captain,” came the call.
Jack walked over to the table where a staff sergeant named Sweeney awaited. “Here are your orders, Captain. You will report ASAP to the 74th Armored Regiment. Grab your gear and a Jeep will take you to them.”
“Armor? You sure, Sergeant? I’m a pilot, not a tanker.”
The sergeant shrugged. “This came directly from the major running this place. He said the 74th requested a captain and you’re the only captain here right now. Congratulations.”
“I don’t know a thing about tanks,” Jack said and realized he was sounding whiny and foolish.
Sergeant Sweeney shrugged eloquently. He didn’t care. “If you know what a tank looks like, you’re way ahead of those adolescent virgin second lieutenants who are standing there and wondering what we’re talking about. And welcome to the real army, sir.”
Sergeant Sweeney was right. Borderline insubordinate, but right. But what the devil would he do in an armored unit? Supply? Probably. Jesus, he didn’t want to spend the war handing out underwear and pillowcases.
“Thank you, Sergeant Sweeney, and may you someday get reassigned to submarines as a deck hand.” Sweeney laughed.
Varner had never met Heinrich Himmler and had never wanted to. The man’s name was synonymous with terror and death.
In person he appeared pasty faced, even worse than his pictures. Himmler’s fishy eyes looked coldly at him.
