Pulaski and Lieutenant Colonel White had done the best they could in getting the battered combat command to safety. Even so, half the men and nearly all the tanks and self-propelled guns had been lost before the survivors had reached Bob Jackson’s combat command, which was coming up in support. Though CCB, the division’s other main fighting element, had taken some losses in screening the retreat, the German pursuit had been halted--and now, with the addition of division reserves, CCB was already back up to strength. As to the men of Combat Command A, they had suffered the most thorough pounding of an American unit since Rommel’s Afrika Korps had hammered another Combat Command A--that of the First Armored Division--at Kasserine Pass in Tunisia, a year and a half earlier.
“Does Intelligence know, yet, what happened at Abbeville?” Pulaski asked, shaking his head.
“I just got the summary this A.M. It seems that Rommel is back in command. Somehow he put an attack together, scraping up tanks here and there while the whole German army group was withdrawing from France. For what it’s worth, you came damn close to cutting off two or three corps--Combat Command A of the Nineteenth Armored caused them some sleepless nights.”
“And where do we go now?”
“First Army is just north of Third... and we’re only a few miles from Reims, now. I guess we’ll be staying put for a little while, licking our wounds. I don’t have any orders from Hodges yet,” Wakefield continued, wondering about his new army commander. An infantry general from way back, Hodges had none of Patton’s fiery drive--but he was known to take good care of his men, and there was a lot to be said for that.
“In any event, we’ll have a bunch of replacements coming in... though equipment, new vehicles, won’t be here for two or three weeks. For now, I want to get the new men into their units, and start training them.”
He sighed, shaking his head. “You did a lot of good while you were on the run, Jimmy... but you stuck your neck out too far, and we’re all paying the price. I want you to take the lessons you’ve learned and try to instill them into the new guys.”
“General--I--I know you opposed this operation, and I just wanted to say, sir--” Pulaski started, but Wakefield cut him off.
“If I thought you deserved an ‘I told you so,’ I’d give you one. Hell, I didn’t know you were going to end up going up against Rommel. If I had, I’d of fought harder. It was a judgment call: you and General King--and General George S. Patton--” he pronounced the “S” like “Ass,”--”thought the risk was worth running, I was on the other side. If Rommel hadn’t come back into command, chances are you would have turned out to be right. So you’re not getting an ‘I told you so’ from me, not this time.”
“Thanks, General,” Pulaski said softly.
Wakefield’s gruff voice softened. “Jimmy, there are some lessons you can learn here. Whenever you get your ass handed to you, there’s always a lesson. We need to get more out of our intelligence staff, on the division level and in your own HQ. Recon was probably deficient, and we won’t let that happen again. But part of the lesson is that lousy things happen sometimes, soldiers get defeated, and sometimes they get killed. Think about what happened, learn from it, but be careful this doesn’t eat you up. Remember, you got pretty far before this happened.”
Wakefield could see the strain on the young man’s face. You could never tell which ones would break under this kind of pressure and which ones would grow into better officers. And he wasn’t sure whether he could help Pulaski through it.
Right now, the boy looked like hell warmed over. But he stood at attention like a real soldier. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Thank you, sir.”
“Get going--you’re dismissed!” Wakefield growled, glowering at the colonel’s back as he turned around and left. He hoped the young man would recover from his defeat.
And why did the burden lay so heavily on this old general’s shoulders?
Dessau, Germany, 6 September 1944, 1800 hours GMT
Paul Krueger looked out the window as the train crossed the bridge over the Elbe and pulled into the city of Dessau. On his shoulders were the twin bars and braided epaulet emblem that denoted his new rank, Oberst, or Colonel. He cared less about the rank than about what it would allow him to do: ramrod the production of Me-262s so their flaming jets would burn the skies clean of the enemy. At his side was his standard issue Luftwaffe Luger pistol, rarely used, but now, as always, fully loaded. He had plans, plans for making sure the Reich’s new weapon would succeed. And if his pistol was needed to enforce his new authority, so be it. Whoever was not performing for the Reich was the enemy of the Reich. And Paul Krueger knew what to do with enemies.
He was anxious to proceed, knew that haste was a crucial part of his mission, but he was also aware that twilight was settling over this city. In order to perform his task in the manner he desired, he would wait until daybreak and then march into the Jumo factory with a full day before him, and the utter attention of the plant manager and his staff guaranteed.
Dessau, an industrial city on the Mulde River where it joined the Elbe about a hundred kilometers southwest of Berlin, was one of the few parts of the Reich where Allied bombers had yet to leave their brutal stamp. There were air raids here, of course, like everywhere, but they had been minor so far, and the damage was scant and well hidden.
It had been so long since Krueger had seen anything not scarred and burned by the war, that this place looked odd, almost alien to him. He felt a cold contempt for the softness he saw here. Perhaps it was his destiny to bring flames of strife here, flames that would purify weakness and rise up to incinerate the enemy.
With clanking wheels and a gush of steam, the locomotive trundled the train into the station. Krueger left the car carrying his small satchel, pushing his way through a meager crowd, over several sets of rails and then past an empty ticket booth. The civilians gave him a wide berth, he suspected not merely because of his rank or imposing appearance, but because of a certain icy mask he drew across his face. They knew that here was a dangerous man.
Galland had shared his plan and goals with Krueger. For the time being, the general had ordered a drastic reduction in the fighter resistance to the Allied bombing campaign. Krueger understood the necessity even while he raged against anything short of a full effort at all times. In the short term, more damage was inflicted upon the Fatherland, but conversely the Luftwaffe was no longer losing dozens of fighters--and, more importantly, their pilots--in the course of each day’s operations. Instead, the weary and battle-worn Me-109s and Fw-190s were being stockpiled, repaired, and replaced, while the Me-262 Swallows were being built as rapidly as possible. Under Minister of Armaments Speer, the factories were being scattered across the countryside, and--though the aircraft industry remained the primary target of the enemy strategic bombing campaign--these smaller installations had proved an effective means of defeating the enemy raiders.
Likewise, airframes for the jets were being assembled at numerous plants dispersed around the Reich, and training of pilots was proceeding quickly. His mind was still filled with the stunning potential of the marvelous machine, the jet fighter that--if employed in sufficient numbers--could surely sweep the enemy from German skies. Krueger’s own training, which had accompanied his promotion, had been fast but effective. The Swallow was superbly airworthy, and he had quickly mastered its performance traits. The main difficulties came from the engines, which, although powerful, were not as reliable as a rational pilot would have liked.
But the reliability of the engines was a secondary problem. The key problem was that the Luftwaffe simply lacked enough of them to put a sufficient number of the lethal jets into the skies.
The task before Krueger was unique in his experience, very different from the shooting down of enemy aircraft or the precise pulverizing of ground positions. He was to improve the efficiency and productivity of the Jumo Engine Werks, the key plant in the manufacture of the power plants. And he felt certain that the same tactics that had worked so well against Soviet aircraft in the skies would prove equally effective against plodding bureaucrats and recalcitrant factory workers.
He saw a line of cattle cars in the nearby freight yard, then stopped to watch as hundreds, eventually a thousand or more, people were prodded in a shuffling mass toward the waiting trains. These were the slave workers from the Jumo plant, he surmised, no doubt being returned to their barracks after their shift was completed. He looked at his watch...a little after 7:00 P.M. Already he had one idea for improving the production of engines. No doubt, after his tour on the morrow, he would have more of them.
Finding a Gasthaus near the station, he quickly settled into a room. There he took out the message once again, the piece of paper that would open the doors of the engine plant and gain the complete attention of everyone he addressed:
28 August 1944
Luftwaffe Special Operations Order
The bearer of this document, Oberst Paul Krueger, a combat ace of utmost capabilities, is hereby charged with an inspection of the Jumo Engine Works, Dessau. He is to be accorded every courtesy by the management of the Jumo plant. His mission bears the full authority of Commander of the Luftwaffe Adolf Galland, and Reichsminister of Armaments Albert Speer.
His recommendations are to be implemented with the utmost vigor.
The signatures of both Galland and Speer were affixed to the bottom of the order. Krueger was pleased to see that Galland’s promotion, like his own, was now official.
After a bath and a shave, Krueger left the hotel for a look at his destination. Again he felt the pedestrians part ways for him, and he relished the respect--and the fear--apparent in the citizens of this old Saxon city. Like so many German industrial towns, it was a mixture of old buildings, especially inns, hotels, and apartments, nestled tightly among large industrial installations--the train station, a bustling shipyard along the river, and of course the great factory that was his reason for coming to Dessau.
The Jumo Engine Plant was near the train station, and for now he merely walked past the silent yard and regarded the massive gray building with only casual interest. He knew that jet engine production was the greatest bottleneck in the production of the Me-262, and it angered him to know that, within those impassive walls, men were not working as hard as they could to create what could be the deliverance of Germany. He had the power to change that, and as he passed the length of the massive edifice he felt the strength, the will, pulsing in his veins. It was hard to be patient. He needed a distraction from now until the morning.
He passed a Rathskeller a block from the factory and decided to pass the time over a few beers. The room at the bottom of the stairs was dark and small, and there was only one customer--a stout old man who hunched protectively over his stein. When the fellow looked up Krueger let the cold mask fall across his face, knowing it would stop any unwelcome attempt at conversation.
The barmaid had been stirring a soup pot in the small kitchen alcove, but when the pilot pulled back a chair she turned and quickly came to his table. She was a perfect picture of Aryan pulchritude, from blond pigtails to plump cheeks, blue eyes, and large, round breasts nicely revealed by her low-cut blouse.
“And what will you be having?” she asked him.
He smiled tightly, conscious of the double entendre, wondering if she intended to suggest that she, herself, might be on the menu tonight.
“A Weiss, please,” he said. He broadened his smile, though the expression was still marked by nothing other than an upward curve of his lips.
She drew the beer herself, then lingered a little longer than strictly necessary at his table. He thanked her, giving her a frank, full-body gaze. She smiled. “Please, sit down, if you can spare the time,” he said, looking ostentatiously around at the nearly empty bar. “What’s your name., fraulein?”
“Gertrude Schmidt... call me Gerti, Herr General.” She probably knew her military ranks, but he allowed her little flattery to go uncorrected.
“Ah, Gerti. My name is Paul. Paul Krueger.” Krueger stared at her directly. She stared back, smiling. “Your talents are wasted in a quiet place like this.”
She sighed. “It is a quiet night, Herr General--Paul. They’re all quiet, now... most of our men are at war. And the people who are still here, they mostly stay home at nights. Fear of air raids, you know.”
Krueger nodded. “Perhaps it will not be long before we Germans can walk about under our own skies again.”
“Do you think it’s possible? I mean...” She shook her head, obviously reluctant to sound defeatist.
He laughed. “I’m certain,” he pledged expansively.
“Ah,” she said, not wanting to argue. “You’re here for the engine works, then?”
His eyes flared brightly. “Who told you I’m here for the engine works?” He grabbed her hand, held it to the table, hard. Shocked, scared, she tried to pull away, but she might as well have tugged at steel bands.
“No one--no one!” she gasped. “I only thought--”
“You’re not here to think!” he barked harshly. “You’re here to bring me another beer. Now!” As soon as he released her, she went quickly to the bar, drew another beer. When she returned to his table, his anger had passed, as quickly as it had come. He smiled. “Sorry, my dear,” he said in his most charming voice. “But there are matters of security that aren’t fit subjects for discussions, even by pretty barmaids.”
She allowed herself to be mollified, to be coaxed into sitting back down. He reached for her hand, noticed the thin gold band on her finger. “Tell me, Gerti... is your man gone to war?”
She looked at him in appraisal, apparently deciding her loneliness was great enough that she would risk his company.
“Ach, ja... Fritz went in ’41. I heard from him at first, but now...not for over a year.” Not meaning to, she found her voice catching, tears beginning to pool.
“Now, now, liebchen. The Wehrmacht is a very efficient organization. They would have notified you if the worst had happened.” He was lying, of course. Krueger knew that Fritz Schmidt was almost certainly rotting away in some forgotten swath of the Russian steppes... but there was always the slight chance that it was otherwise, and she was clearly willing to cling to the hope, no matter how false, no matter how manipulative.