Levin took a swallow and grimaced. The wine truly was pretty bad, but it was alcohol and they were beginning to feel comfortable. Levin continued, “And along with the tanks, there are a number of semi-armored half-tracks and a dozen M10 tank destroyers, which are also under-gunned against the Germans and don’t have any tops on them in order to save weight, which is supposed to increase speed. Dumb.
“We have our own artillery, consisting of a number of 105mm howitzers on open tank chassis. We also have a large number of trucks, gas tanker trucks, and Jeeps, but it’s common knowledge that we don’t have enough of them.”
Jack added more wine to his cup. “What a fuckup.”
Levin laughed. “Yeah, and we’re supposed to be winning this war.”
Colonel Ernst Varner was well on his way home when the sirens began to wail. He felt his stomach churn as he moved quickly to the nearest bomb shelter in the basement of an office building. It was the middle of the day and that meant it was the Americans who were going to rain destruction down on Berlin. Again, just as they did almost every day. The British bombed at night.
Varner was as brave as the next man, but he felt helpless as he cowered in the shelter. He could only wonder as he did each time-what the devil had happened to Germany’s air defenses? Where were the fighters? Why weren’t German bombers hitting enemy airfields? When the war started, Hermann Goering had boasted that if an Allied bomb fell on Berlin he would change his name to Meyer, a Jewish name. Well, the bombs fell constantly now on a relatively helpless Berlin and the disgraced Goering rarely made an appearance. To the people of Berlin he was a buffoon. Varner agreed, although only to himself.
The crump-crump of the bombs could be heard. Some nearby area was getting pasted. Varner could only hope and pray the bombs weren’t falling anywhere near the apartment building where Magda and Margarete awaited his return.
The bombs were falling closer. The shelter began to vibrate and dust filtered down onto the scores of people who huddled in terror. People were moaning and a woman screamed. Children cried. Varner fought the urge to piss. A direct hit on the building above could bury them alive. No matter how many times he’d been in combat, there was always that feeling of unreasonable fear when the firing began. Show me someone without fear, he’d always thought, and I’ll show you either a fool or a lunatic.
Like a thunderstorm in the summer, the bombs reached a violent and ear-shattering crescendo. The walls of the shelter shook with their violence, and still more dust fell from the ceiling, covering everyone jammed inside. Varner smelled smoke and prayed that the exit wasn’t blocked by flames or falling debris. He’d seen instances where that had happened and the people inside were fried to a crisp, their bodies stacked by a blocked exit.
The woman screamed again, yelling for the bombing to stop and then cursing Hitler and Goering for letting it happen. Someone stifled her and prevented her from crying out again. Varner could understand her fear and frustration, but not her outburst. While the Gestapo might not be everywhere, the Gestapo’s informants were, and such hysterical comments could be construed as treasonous.
As the dust settled, he saw the woman, now standing alone. Nobody wanted to be associated with her. She was wide-eyed and terrified, but now from a new sense of panic.
The sounds of bombing faded. But were the Americans through or was this just the first of many waves of attackers? The Yanks seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of planes. Berlin wasn’t totally helpless as hundreds, perhaps thousands, of antiaircraft guns fired at the distant bombers. They would hit some of them, but nowhere near enough to change matters. The British would come tonight and the Americans again tomorrow during the day. And so it would go on.
The all clear sounded and Varner led the group out of the shelter into a changed world. Walls were down and buildings were on fire. Choking black smoke filled the air and torn bodies lay in the street. Ambulances and fire engines were trying valiantly to stem the tide of blood, fire, and damage. He looked for the screaming woman, but she was nowhere to be seen. A policeman with a bandage on his face walked up to him.
“Excuse me, Colonel, but do you know anything about a woman saying treasonous things while in the shelter?”
Well, Varner thought, that didn’t take long. “I heard a hysterical woman howling, but that was all. I really couldn’t make out what she was saying. I was really more concerned about two children who were crying nearby.”
“Do you think you could recognize her?”
“No.”
The policeman nodded knowingly. “Nor can anybody else. What a surprise.”
“Officer, I really don’t think a terrified woman’s outbursts qualify as treason, even if she said them.”
“Nor do I, Colonel, nor do I,” the policeman said and walked away.
A child began screaming. Varner and others went to where a boy was pinned by debris. They pulled him out but not before his eyes rolled back and he lost consciousness. A quick check showed he was still breathing. The boy was about ten and his left arm was smashed and would doubtless have to be amputated.
A medic appeared beside Varner. “At least this one won’t have to go in your army, Colonel.”
“Careful,” Varner snapped.
“Of what?” the medic retorted. “Sooner or later we’ll all be dead and you know it, Colonel.”
Varner found he could not respond. He left the medic and began the long walk back to his apartment.
Morgan sat in the front passenger seat of his Jeep and pondered. It was just like any other traffic jam except he was on a hedgerow-lined dirt road in northern France, and he had an M3 “grease gun” across his lap. He’d chosen that weapon because others recommended it. The M3 fired full automatic, and was smaller than the M1 Garand. Size was a factor for tankers since room inside one was at a premium. He hadn’t had a chance to fire it yet, so he felt just a little foolish carrying it. He also had a. 45 automatic in a holster on his belt. He’d never fired that either. Nor had he yet been inside a tank.
Somewhere he recalled reading that armored columns were supposed to move quickly and charge dramatically into battle. Well, it wasn’t happening this day. The tanks and tank destroyers were in the front of the column, while half-tracks and trucks followed. Literally hundreds of armored and support vehicles were lined up in the narrow dirt road, and all were heading into combat for the first time as a unit. That is, if they ever got there.
The hedgerows in this area weren’t as bad as those closer to the Normandy coast, but they were difficult enough. They constricted vision and forced the regiment into one long single-file column.
Morgan had drawn PFC Snyder again as his driver. Jack yawned and glared at the half-track in front of them. A dozen men were stuffed into it and they all looked bored as hell. His radioman dozed in the back seat. His chief NCO, Sergeant Major Rolfe, and his two lieutenants, Hazen and Vance, rode in vehicles behind him.
Morgan decided to make light of it. “At this rate, Snyder, the war’ll be over before we get to it.”
Snyder grinned. With Morgan his commanding officer, he was no longer the taciturn and bored driver who’d brought him to the regiment. “Fine by me, sir.”
There was a loud crack and the half-track in front exploded. Bodies flew through the track’s open top and into the air. “What the hell?” Morgan said.
Flames erupted from the stricken vehicle as it slowly fell onto its side. A handful of survivors crawled out. One was on fire. Others screamed and tried to crawl away. Snyder floored the accelerator and pulled off the road to their left just as a second crack sounded and the vehicle in front of the dying half-track also exploded. Their Jeep slid onto its side and all three men jumped out.