“Can’t we help them?” Roosevelt asked, almost plaintively.
“Not without curtailing our own operations,” King responded. “We barely have enough tankers and transports to take care of our own needs.”
“Still, we must do something. We cannot permit the British to starve and that’s exactly what will happen if the food ceases to flow. Therefore,” Roosevelt continued, “we must aid England even if it means sending our warships to escort the food convoys.”
“Would that mean war with Argentina?” Hull asked.
“If they attack our ships, then our ships will defend and retaliate. In the meantime, admiral, I suggest that you get that Admiral Vian fellow to get some ships down to Jamaica and perhaps to that port in Guiana, Georgetown. When he gets enough fuel, perhaps Vian’s battleships can bombard Rio de Janeiro. I would hate to see that striking statue of Jesus blown off that mountain top, but that certainly would get Brazil’s attention. We cannot have other nations intruding in our war for survival with their own petty causes.”
“And what shall be done with Argentina?” Hull asked. “It is my understanding that if Argentine soldiers haven’t already landed on the Falklands they very shortly will, and will doubtless overwhelm what defenses the British might have.”
King shrugged, “Unfortunately, there’s not much we can do at this time. Until and if we get a base closer to either the Falklands or Buenos Aires, we suffer from the same time and distance problems as the British.”
The plane was a Piper Cub, an old two seater that had been through a lot. Maybe World War I as well as World War II, thought Tony Romano as he gazed at the patched up wreck.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” said Farrell, his new OSS coordinator.
If Farrell had a first name, he never said it. Nor did Tony know the names of the four other men who’d been working on the small plane. After Sherry had freed him, he’d been hidden in a truck and driven to a small farm near St. Catharines, Ontario. He was just a few miles away from the border between Canada and the U.S. and he could almost taste freedom and home.
Of course, a few miles might as well have been the distance from earth to the moon. The area was crawling with Germans as they prepared to resist an invasion from the U.S., and they’d had to be careful. As it was, they’d been stopped a couple of times, but their phony papers had been good enough to get them through.
“Well, can you fly the damn thing?” Farrell asked.
Tony had checked it over. Aside from the obvious wear and tear, it looked like a sturdy little beast. “Will I get an opportunity to try it out?” he asked hopefully.
“Nope, you get one chance and one chance only. With all the krauts in the area, we can’t afford to let them see you flying around, especially with what looks like a bomb strapped to it.”
Tony had been told that the plane would be fitted with a 55 gallon drum filled with gasoline and fitted with a crude trigger that was supposed to ignite it on impact. His target would be the first of a small column of German U-boats that would be transiting the Welland Canal on its way to Lake Erie. If all went well, saboteurs would also have damaged the locks, preventing the subs from moving through them.
Farrell laughed. “If this works, you might just get your fifth sub, ace.”
“Or get the words nice try engraved on my tombstone.”
“We’re planning on you doing a night attack.”
“Not a chance in hell,” Tony said. “It’ll be tricky enough to locate and hit it during the day. At night I’d be lucky to find Toronto. I’ll fly in from the north right after dawn and maybe they won’t notice me until the last minute. Maybe all their guns will be pointed south.”
Farrell concurred, not that it mattered. Tony would be flying the plane, not him.
And maybe pigs will fly and maybe Hitler wears women’s panties, Tony thought. But he had to do it. He couldn’t let these other people take all the risks after getting him out of the camp. But how would his family or Nancy O’Connor find out what was happening to him?
“And one other thing,” Tony added, “I’ll be flying real low, hopefully well under a hundred feet.”
Fortunately, he wouldn’t be going too fast. On a good day, the little plane could do eighty miles an hour, which meant he should be able to dodge anything really tall. He laughed bitterly. He’d already lost two planes. Would this little Piper Cub be the third? And how many damn crashes could he survive?
Kommodore Reinhard Hardegan commanded a small squadron of three Type IX U-boats. He was a combat veteran who’d been awarded the Iron Cross among other medals. He was considered a fair, honest, and even honorable commander. At forty-one he was thought to be a rising star in the U-boat command. When the war with the United States started, he had launched attacks against American merchant ships and had sunk several. He’d even penetrated Chesapeake Bay and given serious thought to doing the same with New York Harbor. Cooler heads among his crew talked him out if it. Still, he thought with a quiet smile, it would have been a good feeling to have sunk a merchant ship in the shadow of the Empire State Building.
At this moment, however, he felt impotent and foolish. His sub, the U-123, was the first of the three to try and transit from Lake Ontario to Lake Erie via the Welland Canal. His boat had been skillfully disguised by the addition of fake wooden walls that had been painted to make the U-123 look like a small tramp steamer. The same had been done to the other two boats that waited patiently behind him in other locks. Like the U-123, they were all moored to the side of the lock, which meant they couldn’t move. It didn’t matter. They had no place to go.
There were no longer any German ships in Lake Erie. There had been at least one sub and there had been no reports from it. Thus it was imperative that the three German subs make it into Lake Erie to forestall the possibility of an American amphibious assault behind German lines. However, to get to Lake Erie he had to get through a lock on the Welland Canal that apparently had been sabotaged. At least it hadn’t been blown up, he thought ruefully. Had that occurred, the rush of water downstream to the lower Lake Ontario might have crushed the hull of U-123. He didn’t think the damage to the lock was all that serious, but nobody could find the men who worked on the canal and could fix it. Damn Canadians, he thought. Are they allies or enemies?
The sun was rising which presented another problem. He had the nagging thought that the damage to the locks presaged an attack by American planes at first light. Hardegen had decided that if his ship was a sitting duck, his crew need not be. He had ordered all but those necessary to man the 20mm anti-aircraft guns to go ashore. At first the others had protested, but they saw the logic. Since they were unable to move, they might as well have a form of shore leave even though the men were only a hundred yards or so away. He could see them sprawled out on the grass and enjoying themselves. He would rotate them to minimize any threat. His men appreciated that and he appreciated them.
Enough of the fake walls had been removed to give his gunners a clear field of fire. Any attack by the Americans had to come from the south. As he peered through his binoculars for the first sign of danger, he heard in the background the sound of a small plane, either a Storch or one of the local Piper Cubs. Regardless, it wasn’t a fighter or a bomber. Perhaps, he thought, it was someone from Guderian’s headquarters wondering what the hell the problem was.
The sound of the small plane drew closer and it seemed like it was headed directly towards the U-123.
Hardegan turned to the north. Shit. The small Piper was headed straight towards him and there was something slung below it. He screamed and the gunners turned their weapons around to face the new threat. The enemy plane was coming in very low and was very close. Tracers from the guns streaked through the air, but the plane was too close to stop. It appeared to stagger as some shells struck it, but the bomb had already been released.