Again Morgan admitted that the corporal had a point. Even though many constitutional rights were suspended in the military, they didn’t totally disappear and there was safety in numbers. As long as the signers and organizers did nothing overt, like fomenting mutiny or assaulting officers, they were fairly safe. Word had come from the top that the petitions were to be tolerated, which had outraged some of the officers and noncoms. People like Snyder might never be promoted, but that meant nothing to them. They wanted to go home. Hell, so did he.
The petitions were nothing new. They’d been circulating for a couple of months, although the arrival of Christmas seemed to have accelerated the process. Jack had to admit that Christmas for him in snowy, cold, and lonely Germany was incredibly depressing. So too was the fact that Jessica was closer but so far away.
“You know I’m not going to sign it.”
“Didn’t think you would, sir, but I had to ask. Some officers have, in case you’re curious.”
Jack grinned. “Ike?”
Snyder’s stern facade cracked. “We’re working on him, sir.”
“So what happens when you send these in, assuming the army will let you, and nothing happens. What will you do when the time comes to cross the Rhine?”
Snyder took a deep breath. “I hope it doesn’t come to that, although I have to admit it will probably happen. If we have to fight, everybody I’ve talked to says they will. Nobody’s going to let anybody else down.”
Snyder took the unsigned petition and left Morgan alone in the tent. Jack poured himself a cup of the black tar that passed for coffee in the army. The quiet revolution in the army was yet another item for concern. He sympathized with Snyder and all the others who simply wanted to go home, and he also sympathized with those like Levin who had relatives who’d disappeared into the maniacally evil beast that was Nazi Germany. The thought of the monsters who did that going unpunished and allowed to continue in charge of Germany was repugnant. Jack smiled at the thought of Snyder asking Captain Levin to sign the petition. It wouldn’t happen. Snyder wasn’t that crazy.
To further complicate matters, he’d received another letter from Jessica. She and three others had made it to Aachen where they were setting up a refugee information center. She mentioned that the military police had arrested her friend Monique and that Monique’s friend, Master Sergeant Boyle, had been killed. Reading in-between the lines, Jack had come to the conclusion that Jessica had been involved in the operation and it chilled him. Jessica should not have been in danger. What the hell was this world coming to when soldiers circulate peace petitions and women working for the Red Cross are put in danger?
How many thousand years ago was it when he played football for Michigan State and his primary concerns were wondering which hole to hit, which classes needed more study, and which coeds would go out with him?
Someday he might go back to civilian life, but neither he nor anyone else in the military would ever be the same, especially those who’d killed and seen their comrades killed or maimed.
Nor, he realized, would Jessica. Damn. The world was changing way too fast.
Carter got out of the Jeep and stared at the vast storage depot. Rows of vehicles of all kinds, tracked and wheeled, along with enormous stacks of materiel, seemed to stretch to the horizon. Out of sight but just as huge were stockpiles of gasoline, diesel and other material deemed flammable or explosive; thus requiring special storage facilities away from the other items.
Located a little more than twenty miles from the Rhine, the depot was considered out of the range of German artillery and it was protected by American fighters who maintained patrols overhead and were aided by radar that could usually pick up a German plane from far away.
The depot was surrounded by barbed wire, and grim-faced MP’s patrolled the perimeter. The depot was in occupied Germany and the army was taking no chances with saboteurs. Germany was still hostile territory. Some GI’s had taken to referring to the Rhineland Germans as Apaches and the Rhineland as a reservation.
Carter, Morgan, and the others all had to show ID and their orders at several layers of security before gaining admission to the supply depot that was more of a city than a storage facility.
And it was only one of a number of similar sites filling up with materiel in anticipation of the dreaded Rhine crossing.
“This must’ve been what it was like in England just before D-Day,” Carter said. “I heard jokes that the island almost sank under the weight of all the GI’s and supplies. Now I believe it.”
“You weren’t in England?” Jack asked.
“Nah, most of us came straight over from New Jersey, which is why we didn’t go into combat right away. They didn’t think we were ready. As it turned out, they were right.”
Morgan wondered if there were any landing craft in the depot. He couldn’t see any, but that didn’t mean a thing. The presence of landing craft would confirm the rumor that at least part of the assault on what the krauts called the Rhine Wall would come from their area. What joy, they all thought at the prospect.
“I wonder why the Germans don’t lob their V-rockets at this site. It’s not like they could miss it,” Jeb asked.
“Why don’t you go ask them?” Morgan teased.
Actually, he thought he knew why. The rockets were terribly inaccurate and might not find the depot. Also, the warheads weren’t all that large, which meant any explosion, unless it was a direct hit on a large supply of ammo or fuel, wouldn’t accomplish all that much. And, even if they did hit something that went boom, losses could be made up fairly quickly. The United States, as the Arsenal of Democracy, was going full bore, pouring out an incredible stream of supplies. The air force was also doing a marvelous job of making life miserable for the Germans who had to manufacture and then launch the abominable rockets.
A guide in a lead Jeep turned left and they followed, passing a long line of replacement Sherman tanks. Finally, they stopped and Jeb gazed in wonder.
“Look at that,” he said. “Aren’t they just too beautiful for words?”
Jack laughed. “Tanks are not beautiful. In fact most sane people would think they’re kind of ugly.”
“Okay, asshole, so they’re not beautiful in a Betty Grable sort of way, but they are sinister and beautiful in a sexy life-saving sort of way.”
All the officers and enlisted men left their Jeeps and trucks and gazed in combinations of wonder and delight at the metal behemoths lined up to greet them.
They were all Pershing M26 tanks. A Captain Powell from the depot checked their orders and officiously confirmed everything. He was slightly overweight like most supply soldiers, which this time was not resented by the men of the 74th.
Carter patted the hull of one of the tanks and grinned. “Not quite as big or as fast as a Panther, but, damn, there’s that big, beautiful 90mm main gun that’s badder than a Panther, even a T34 if the rumors that the Germans have some are true.”
The tank also had a. 50 caliber and two. 30 caliber machine guns. It carried a crew of five and had a gas engine. Carter counted twelve of the tanks.
Carter continued to smile. “These are all ours, right?”
“Just be careful with them and don’t scratch them up,” Powell said, proving he had a sense of humor. “They don’t have to be whitewashed or otherwise camouflaged since the krauts already know they’re here. Probably every third German in the area is a spy and has seen them come in by train. After all, they are kind of hard to hide.”
Sirens went off and Powell guided them to a trench, which they entered almost casually. All over the area, soldiers were doing the same thing.
“It’s just a Jerry on a recon flight,” Powell said as he lit a cigarette. “They do that almost every day. If they would be so kind as to make it a scheduled stop, we might be able to ambush the bastard. Otherwise they’re just too damn fast.”