Lukas woke up and looked out the rear of the truck, realizing that the division had entered another city. He knew even before the vehicle started to slow down that this was their destination. In another minute they had come to a halt, and even in the darkness he could make out the truck behind them pulling up close and also stopping.
Within the canopied cargo compartment of this vehicle, he sensed the watching, patient eyes of his men, the twelve veteran panzer grenadiers that Peiper had assigned to him. They were his own platoon of tough SS veterans, and he desperately wanted to prove himself worthy of their respect. Only the whites of the men’s eyes were visible in the almost lightless compartment, but to Lukas they seemed penetrating and keen, as if they could look right into his soul. Every one of these men was older than he was. He resolved that he would prove himself worthy to these heroes of the SS, who were so very different—so much more serious, weary, and yet quietly capable—from the boys who had formed his first command.
“Dismount—
schnell!
” came the order from outside of the truck.
“You heard—let’s go,” Lukas said, holding back the canvas flap so that the men could climb down to the ground. After the humid, drowsy warmth of the cabin, the chilly night air against his face felt bracing and invigorating, and he was instantly wide awake. A moment later Lukas followed the last of the enlisted men in spilling out of the truck.
Quickly, instinctively, he checked his weapons. His Schmeisser machine pistol was slung across his chest, and many extra clips of ammunition weighted him down as they were slung from pouches at his belt and on his back. His sidearm, a battered but capable Walther claimed from the equipment depot, was secure in its holster on his right hip, with several extra clips for that weapon fastened to his belt. On his left side he wore his knife, the same blade he had carried throughout the war, and the worn hilt felt smooth and comforting when he reflexively wrapped his fingers around it.
“Form up,” he called, as he heard other officers and sergeants shouting the same thing. “Check your weapons.” He was not certain if the latter command was necessary or not, but he wanted the men to know that he was thinking.
“What about the grenades, Herr Obersturmführer?” asked one of the
privates. When Peiper had given Lukas his new assignment, he had also given him a promotion from second lieutenant to first lieutenant.
Lukas knew that there were two crates of the explosive devices, affectionately termed “potato mashers,” in the back of the truck. He pointed to the four largest men. “You two, and you two, each take a crate. We’ll carry them along in the boxes, until we get closer to the front.” He was gratified when the men reached into the truck without hesitation, following his orders to pull out the heavy cases.
The night sky was overcast, and the city dark, so he relied on his ears to decipher what was going on around him. He could hear the rumbling engines of tanks, was even able to identify the deeper thrum of a Panther against the rattle of the more numerous Mark IVs. The Second SS Panzer Division might be understrength, but it was still a lethal formation.
Next Lukas tried to get his bearings. He had never been this far east before, but he understood the geography that Standartenführer Peiper had explained to his officers: Küstrin was a city on the Oder River that stood astride the most direct route from Poland to Berlin. It was here that the Russians were expected to make their first great push, and here that Führer Himmler had dispatched his most loyal troops. It was hard to see much in the night, but he perceived mounds of rubble on both sides of the road, and a few tall walls that looked like they might have been intact buildings—though most likely these were just façades that had survived the bombing and shelling. He didn’t know where the river was, but he assumed that it wouldn’t be far.
He saw flashes of matches here and there as the troops started to light up ersatz cigarettes near the front of the column. The trail of sparkling lights moved back, and he saw that a tall officer in a peaked SS cap was coming along the line of trucks.
“Have a smoke and a piss, men,” he was saying. “We’ll move out in a few minutes. From here we’re on foot—these trucks are needed to go back to Berlin and bring up a few more of our friends. You don’t want to hog all the glory for yourselves, do you?”
By now Lukas recognized Peiper’s voice, and it made him feel better to know that the colonel was so near. One of the troops nearby struck a match as he passed, and the tall Standartenführer looked down at the young officer and smiled, a tight look that was almost a grimace. His scarred face was etched in fire, and he looked very fierce—like a mythical warrior, thought Lukas.
“Ready to go to work again, Obersturmführer Vogel?” he asked.
“Yes, sir!” Lukas promised.
“Good. We’ll be putting your grenadiers into some buildings near the waterfront. I’ll want you to wait there, but be ready to move out at a moment’s notice. Understand?”
“Yes, Colonel,” pledged the young soldier, his manner solemn and serious as he suspected a veteran’s should be.
“Good man,” said Peiper, and then he was gone.
A few minutes later they started to march. As dawn came to this blasted city, it was somewhat heartening to see the great number of SS soldiers around Lukas. This was the equivalent of a great panzerarmee, including many divisions of tanks, as well as thousands of battle-hardened soldiers. It was hard to imagine that the Russians could force their way across a wide, deep river when the bank was held by men like these. And vividly Lukas remembered the promise he had made to General Dietrich himself:
They would stop the Red Army here, or they would die trying.
The cathedral tower rising above the central square of this French city bore the scars of many wars, but still loomed proud and straight, certainly the most dramatic building in this small city in northeast France. It was far from the most important, however.
That distinction fell to a three-story building of undistinguished architecture, in a quiet district of back streets near the railroad station. A small sign identified the place as the College Moderne et Technique, and in the prewar years more than a thousand young men had attended here, studying various technical trades. Now the large structure held only the most crucial sections of the Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Expeditionary Forces; the rest of the vast command hierarchy was spread throughout the city, wherever they could find room.
The Supreme Commander had chosen for his own office a small classroom on the second floor of the building. It had two windows overlooking the street, though even after the gray dawn these were still covered by blackout curtains. The general—or “the General,” as he was known through the HQ—had put his desk on the old teacher’s station, on a platform slightly higher than the floor of the room. The only other furniture in the room consisted of a few battered, but comfortable chairs.
General Dwight Eisenhower was nearing the end of a pack of cigarettes, and he was vaguely irritated that it was not yet nine in the morning. He had opened the package with his first cup of coffee, some four hours earlier. He shrugged and flicked his lighter one more time; he had more important things on his mind than cigarette consumption, right now. He stepped off the platform and paced the length of the classroom, then returned to his desk. He stared at the telephones, wondering when—not if, since he had already made up his mind—he should give the order.
Of course, he acknowledged that it was not entirely his decision to make. He had made his recommendation, sent it off to the Combined Chiefs of Staff, and expected an answer shortly.
As if on cue, there was a knock on the door followed immediately by the entry of Ike’s chief of staff, General Walter Bedell Smith. He greeted the Supreme Commander cheerfully.
“Ah, Beetle. I take it you’ve got my cable?”
“Came in less than an hour ago, sir.” He opened his blue leather folder and pulled out a sheet of paper, reaching to lay it on the desk. Eisenhower snatched it up before it came into contact with the surface. His eyes went right to the meat of the message:
REGARDING OPERATION ECLIPSE, YOUR RECOMMENDATION ACCEPTED BY PRESIDENT AND COMBINED CHIEFS. YOU ARE AUTHORIZED TO PROCEED AT THE EARLIEST POSSIBLE MOMENT. INDICATIONS ARE THAT UNCLE JOE IS PLAYING FOR THE SAME TROPHY, SO EMPHASIZE THAT TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE.
GOOD LUCK, AND GODSPEED.
GENERAL GEORGE C. MARSHALL,
CHIEF OF STAFF
UNITED STATES ARMY
Eisenhower exhaled a long stream of smoke through his nose. He was a cautious commander as a rule, and not by nature a gambling man—except of course when it came to D-Day, which had been to his way of thinking the
biggest gamble of the entire war. Now he was authorized to take another chance, with an operation that would certainly have unexpected consequences. Given the Russian betrayal, with their armistice of 1944, it was a chance that the United States of America was willing to take.
He pushed a button on his intercom. “Send in Looie Brereton and his division COs,” he told Sergeant Summersby.
A few moments later General Lewis Brereton, commander of the First Allied Airborne Army, entered, accompanied by five generals, each a commander of an airborne division or brigade, the components of the airborne army. Their troops were elite, and could travel to battle by parachute, glider, or—once an airfield had been seized by initial lander—transport aircraft. All of them were itching to get back into the war. Since their key use during the Normandy invasion, they had been relegated to use as reinforcement and reserve troops.
Two of them, Generals Maxwell Taylor and James Gavin, commanded the veteran American divisions, the Eighty-second “All-American” Division, and the 101st “Screaming Eagles,” respectively. Eisenhower knew and trusted them, and had a very high regard for their troops. Both formations had been instrumental in insuring the success of the D-Day landings, and had provided crucial reinforcements during Rommel’s great offensive in December. In the latter case the airborne soldiers had been trucked to the battlefield, and the Supreme Commander knew they were itching for a chance to fulfill their proper role one more time; that is, to drop out of the sky to claim objectives in advance of the ground troops.
“Men,” Ike began, pulling down a map of Germany from a rollup on the wall. “You’re going to be out in front of the whole damned expeditionary force, this time.” The Supreme Commander’s finger pointed to the map, while he watched the generals, pleased to see the light of excitement and possibility kindled in every man’s eye.
“You’re going to drop into Berlin, and hold the place until Third Army and the rest of Twelfth Army Group can get up there to take over.”
“Hot damn, General!” declared Taylor. “This is the chance we’ve been waiting for!”
“It’s a big job. Max, your boys will be assigned to these major airfields—Gatow and Staaken, with the airfield at Schönwald as a tertiary objective. Jim, the All-Americans are to take Tempelhof—that’s practically inside the city limits—and Rangdor airfields.” Eisenhower went on to round out the plans: A British brigade would take the large airport at Oranienburg, while more Brits and a reserve brigade of expatriate Polish paratroopers would serve as reinforcements.
“This will be a daylight drop. Some of the Krauts can be expected to resist, at least those in the SS. We have hopes that the Wehrmacht units will be willing
to surrender, in the hopes that we, and not the Russians, will get control of their country after the war.”
“Are my boys going to get into the show?” asked General Eldridge Chapman, commander of the newly arrived Thirteenth Airborne Division. Chapman’s division had been created in August of 1943, activated on Friday the thirteenth in fact, and his unblooded officers were eager to prove their mettle.
“You’ll be going in the second wave,” the Supreme Commander explained. “Your paratroop regiment will be dropped where we need reinforcements, and your two glider regiments will land at Tempelhof, as soon as Jim’s boys get the runways cleared.”
Eisenhower turned the briefing over to his staff officers and stood back, chain-smoking while he watched the rapt eyes of the airborne generals. This was the chance they had been waiting for, and he saw the determination and excitement in their expressions. Good, he thought—they would need all that, and more.
For this whole Operation Eclipse was a gamble, and Dwight Eisenhower was not by nature a gambling man. His greatest roll of the dice had occurred nine months earlier, when he had sent an invasion force across the English Channel in the face of a worrisome weather report, and the tenacious defense of Field Marshal Erwin Rommel. That gamble had paid off, in spades.
But could he be that lucky again?