driving nearly impossible. Even tanks had a hard time plowing through the accumulated piles of snow and slush.
Finally, the army had begun to get winter uniforms, including boots, liners for field jackets, gloves, and hats with ear pieces. The result was a welcome reduction in incidents of frostbite.
At least as important were white coverings for the uniforms that helped the GI’s blend into the ground and avoid drawing attention from the Germans across the river. It was a source of aggravation that the Germans had their snow coverings long before the Americans. Tanks and other vehicles had been hastily white-washed. Tankers groused that when the thaw came, it would mean the tanks would have to be scrubbed clean. They were reminded that war was hell.
Morgan turned back to his copilot. “Snyder, what do you want for Christmas besides an honorable discharge?”
“That about covers it, sir.”
“Sorry I can’t get that for you. If I could, I’d get one for myself first.”
“Then maybe getting laid would be nice, too, if they’d ever drop that damn rule.”
“No comment, Snyder.” The unrepentant Feeney was now the butt of many jokes. Non-Catholics who had no idea what a rosary was, actually stopped and watched him pray, which thoroughly annoyed Feeney.
Below them, the Rhine was still snow-choked. On a different day, it might have been scenic. Now they looked below for a military advantage. Had anything changed since the last time they’d flown over? If so, what was it and why? They would both take notes while Snyder took pictures.
As always, their orders were to stay on the American side of the Rhine. Across the river on the German side, a German Storch flew on an almost parallel course. Jack fought the insane urge to fly over and see who the pilot was and ask him what he thought of the war. There was an informal truce between the two sides regarding the small observation planes-don’t shoot at me and I won’t shoot at you. Also, don’t cross the damn river.
Suddenly, the German banked sharply away. “What the hell,” Jack said. Fingers of tracer fire erupted from a dozen hidden sites and streaked skyward. They looked up and saw a plane much higher in the sky. “Somebody’s using a real plane and taking real pictures now that the weather’s cleared.”
For the past week, reconnaissance flying had been nearly impossible as the snow had socked in everything. Now that the weather was beginning to get better, everyone wanted to see what had happened while they were grounded.
“Y’know sir, I don’t think it was a smart idea for the Germans to shoot at that recon plane.”
Morgan concurred. Never give away your hiding place unless there was a really good reason. To prove the point, a flight of six American P47 Thunderbolt fighter bombers swooped low and dropped their loads. Clouds of flame erupted where they landed, exploding in a horrible beauty.
“Napalm,” Jack said, recalling the destruction of the SS position in the forest. Death by burning was a horrible fate, even for a Nazi, but if it ended the war or even got them across the Rhine by turning German forts into charnel houses, then napalm was a godsend. Nobody on the U.S. side could imagine a weapon they wouldn’t use against the Germans, with the possible exception of poison gas. It was common knowledge that the krauts had stockpiles of gas and everybody wondered if the Germans would use it when the crossing came.
A dark shadow sped by and one of the Thunderbolts exploded, while the others scattered like sparrows attacked by a hawk. One of the American planes flew low overhead and was quickly followed by a shape that screamed by at incredible speed.
“Jesus, Captain, did you see that?”
“Yeah,” Jack answered. He was a little stunned by the savage turn of events. One minute they were enjoying the view and the next people were burning to death on the ground and being shot out of the sky.
“That was a jet, wasn’t it, sir?”
“Snyder, I’ve never seen one, but I’ll bet that’s exactly what it was. I think we’ve had enough excitement for today. Let’s head for home.”
Home, he thought. What the hell was home? He’d just been served napalm and a jet fighter for Christmas.
“Who in God’s name gave you permission to piss on the floor of my shiny new bunker?” Schurmer raged at the hapless young officer standing and shaking before him.
Volkssturm Lieutenant Volkmar Detloff stood at attention and took the scolding. His lips were trembling but he swore he would not cry. Colonel Schurmer’s face was livid. “Answer me, you little turd, why? And did you shit yourself as well as pissing on the floor and why did you find it necessary to perform such acts in front of your entire platoon?”
Volkmar flinched. He had shit and pissed himself, but not that much. He had never been so afraid in his young life and had completely lost control.
“Detloff, I hope you recall that, in your cowardly haste to leave the bunker, you trampled over two men who were seriously wounded and a lot braver than you.”
“I’m sorry,” Detloff stammered.
“I should have you shot,” Schurmer snarled.
He wouldn’t, of course. Schurmer had made a quick call to Berlin and his friend, Ernst Varner, and confirmed that the odious little twit’s equally odious father was still a senior aide to Heinrich Himmler. This was why he, and not Detloff’s direct superior was handling the incident. Not only would the boy not be shot, but Schurmer had to figure a way to hide this incident.
Nor did he think young Detloff was all that much of a coward. From everything he’d found, the situation in the bunkers when the American planes had dropped napalm had been terrible.
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
“Don’t lie to me! Your disgusting pimples say you’re younger.”
The boy gulped. “Sixteen, sir.”
“Now tell me the truth. Wouldn’t you rather be at home waiting for the Christ child to deliver presents on Christmas Eve, or do you believe Santa Claus does it at night like the Americans do?”
Prudently, the boy didn’t answer. Schurmer thought it more likely he, like so many devout Nazis, didn’t believe in anything except Hitler’s dogmas. Perhaps the boy’s family would just sit around the lighted and decorated Christmas tree and exchange presents and lift a glass of schnapps to Himmler and the memory of Hitler.
Schurmer knew what had happened to the boy. When planes had dropped napalm on a bunker beside Detloff’s, the men inside had been incinerated. A cloud of flame had rushed over where Detloff and his men were justifiably cowering. Air had been sucked out of the bunker and men had collapsed, choking and gasping, but the napalm had been a near miss and blessed breathable air had returned quickly. Fingers of liquid fire leaking through embrasures were extinguished, but the air stank of scorched flesh and burned meat. In terror, a slightly singed Detloff had led a stampede out of the bunker. On their way, they passed a number of cremated German soldiers and it was then that young Detloff had lost what remained of his courage.
Detloff was almost in tears. “I was more afraid then I ever thought possible. I have never seen such horror in all my life, not even during the bombings in Berlin.”
Schurmer had no sympathy. “Then you have never truly seen war.” But why should a sixteen-year-old boy have to see war in the first place? Have we sunk that far?
“It wasn’t only the fire, Colonel, it was the fact that the walls were closing in on me and I thought I would either suffocate or be crushed.”
Wonderful, Schurmer thought. How many other claustrophobic soldiers were down in the bunkers and what would make them also break when the real attack came? Fire, not claustrophobia, was the true Achilles heel of the fortresses of the Rhine Wall. They were almost impervious to shelling and bombing, but nothing could stand up to fire, and the liquid napalm used by the Americans could possibly unravel all his work.
“I even hurt my leg again.”
Schurmer wondered if the wretch hadn’t reinjured his knee on purpose. It wouldn’t be the first time
