Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (62 page)

It had taken some time for the team to reach the area, and even more time for them to find anything resembling a modern transport aircraft.

But they found it, none the less.

There had never been any hope of survivors, for the Grossglockner was a cold and forbidding place, even in summer, so even if a body had been lucky enough to survive the impact, the environment would be bound to triumph.

And so it had proved, as the wreckage, spread over a large area, yielded only the frozen-rigid corpses of those long dead.

The ‘rescuers’ moved quickly around the site, seemingly more concerned about personal possessions and baggage than recovering the mortal remains of the Red Cross personnel.

The leader spoke into his radio.

“C’mon guys, hustle up. The rescue teams are about two hours out, and I want to put plenty of snow between them and us.”

Throughout the area, his men, clad all in white, rummaged through the wreckage and recovered all sorts of material, stowing the contents of their labours in large rucksacks.

Papers, files, containers… anything that had intelligence value.

“Cap’n!”

Morris Snyder turned to the source of the shout.

Farrah, the unit’s radio operator, waved him closer.

“According to our top cover, they’re in the next valley up… closer than we thought, Cap’n.”

Snyder looked around him and worked the problem.

His briefing had been clear.

‘Command’s orders are simple. Get to the wreck as quickly as possible and recover as much intel as possible. Make it as anonymous as possible, but certainly
do not get discovered
. The possibility of recovering injured has not been discussed and you should use your own judgement. Remember, the mission comes first.’

He looked at the map and confirmed in which valley the recon aircraft had spotted the rescuers.

The aircraft was ostensibly working for the rescue effort, but was actually observing for the small team of experienced skiers and mountaineers from the elite 10th US Mountain Division.

“Green, Red, over.”

“I hear you, Red.”

“We have twelve minutes tops, Green. I want your squad ready to lead off in ten. Clear.”

“Roger.”

William Green drove his men harder.

“Red, Blue, over.”

“Receiving.”

“Blue, hustle ‘em up. You got ten minutes. Check over by that big boulder”, he pointed so that Sergeant Berry could see where he was talking about, “There’s all sort of shit over there, Blue, over.”

“Roger.”

Red Snyder watched as Berry sent some of his men towards the unexplored area, and returned to Farrah.

“Get that info firmed up with the birdmen, Corporal. I ain’t getting jumped by a bunch of civilian do-gooders.”

He lit a cigarette and watched his men redouble their efforts.

Eleven minutes later, the thirty-man group moved off, now also burdened with a lot of materiel from the dead Red Cross party.

Files, briefcases, loose papers… anything that could be of value.

It was the hottest day of the year so far, a fact that needed no announcement to the men who disembarked from the C-69 Constellation.

The aircraft, one of the most modern in the USAAF transport fleet, had been crammed full with specialist personnel, enacting a command decision to move the maximum number of qualified bodies, in order to expedite the operations of Composite Group 663, the most secret operational bomber unit in Europe, bar none.

The eight-hour flight had tested the resolve of even the most resilient of men, and the aroma that accompanied them as they stepped down did not go unnoticed by the reception committee.

Colonel Jens Lauridson of the Danish Air Force, base commander at Karup, led the delegation that received the American airmen and ground crew.

“Colonel Banner?”

Behind the sunglasses and huge cigar lay a tired and unhappy man.

None the less, he tried to be polite.

“Colonel Lauridson?”

They shook hands warmly, although the Dane felt unclean from the moment he touched flesh.

“I suggest that we get you and your men cleaned up first, Colonel?”

“You’ll get no goddamned resistance from me on that one, fella.”

“Have your men follow this officer”, he beckoned an Air Force Captain forward.

The man beside Lauridson coughed politely.

“Apologies, Wing Commander. Colonel Banner, this is Wing Commander Cheshire… Colonel Banner.”

The two shook hands.

Banner’s eyes were immediately drawn to the array of ribbons on the man’s tunic, including the highest his country had to offer, but he was also aware that the eyes that assessed him were tired, almost lacking in light.

“You’re my second in command I think, fella.”

“Indeed, Colonel Banner. I command the RAF contingent here. Perhaps we should postpone further introductions until you and your men have a chance to eat and rest.”

“I’m all for that, fella.”

Banner turned to his weary crew.

“Ok, listen up, boys. We’re gonna get ourselves cleaned up and get some chow. This Danish officer will show you the way. No duties for tonight. Just get your gear stowed away. Best behaviour or I’ll know why. I’ll issue orders during the evening. Dismiss.”

Cheshire observed the disorganised display with some disdain, but kept his own counsel, although he caught Lauridson sending him a quiet look.

‘Was this man really the best the Americans had for the mission?’

It would surprise Cheshire no end that he would one day refer to Colonel Gary George Banner as probably the finest officer he had ever met.

Eternal Father strong to save,

Whose arm has bound the restless wave,

Who bids the mighty ocean deep,

Its own appointed limits keep,

O hear us when we cry to Thee,

For those in Peril on the sea.

William Whiting.

“Is that wise, Sir?”

“Well, unless you want to get your boys off and make way for proper fighting soldiers, I guess it’s all we have, Crisp.”

There was no insult, only humour, although McAuliffe’s resilience was being tested heavily.

“Wouldn’t it be better to wait… see what the navy comes up with, Sir?”

“This withdrawal has been planned down to a tee, Colonel. The Spanish are in your old quarters as we speak. You and the 327th have nowhere to go back to. In any case, the trains’ll be waiting at Lübeck. Waiting for both your troopers and the 327th boys. Navy’s let us down… couldn’t be helped… that’s the way it is, son. If we pack ‘em tight in your boat, we’ll get both of you to the trains and back to Mourmelon a-sap.”

On cue, they both turned to examine the crippled Haskell-class attack transport, USS Allendale, from whose superstructure smoke still rose lazily.

An accidental fire, according to the ship’s captain, but one that deprived units of the 327th Glider Infantry their ticket home.

McAuliffe received a written report with a grunt, read it, and handed it across to Crisp.

“So, navy say they can definitely squeeze you all into Kingsbury. Let’s get it done, Colonel. It won’t be for too long. Just make sure your boys give the ‘Bulldogs’ enough room for them to stand up and cock a leg to pee, ok?”

“I hear that, Sir.”

The 327th had taken a pounding during its time in Pomerania, losing their commander, Bud Harper, injured in the initial stages. They then suffered the loss of the replacement regimental commander to Soviet mortars on the final day of their exposure to front line action.

Which left Acting Lieutenant Colonel Griffin Field in charge, a man with whom Crisp had an excellent relationship, following the bloody slugfests at Wolin.

“Liaise with Field and get ‘em stowed away so that Kingsbury can get away by midday, Crisp.”

The harbour at Swinemünde was capable of taking only two decent sized vessels, much of the ports facilities having been damaged by the Allies, then the Germans, then the Russians, and finally, the Allies once more.

McAuliffe acknowledged Crisp’s salute and set his mind to the next problem, which had doubled in complication with the damage to APA-127 USS Allendale, which vessel was now occupying one of his two berths.

Determined to put a ‘burr under the arse’ of the ship’s captain, McAuliffe strode off down the dock, followed by harassed staff officers who were better equipped for organising an airborne assault than a seaborne evacuation.

101st had been denied an aerial return, the increased number of Soviet jet aircraft cited as one reason, the constant presence of transports delivering Spanish and Polish units another, although rumours about shortages of transport aircraft through to fuel abounded.

Still, as McAuliffe had quipped to his senior officers, it was a lovely time of year for a cruise.

Truman stood at the window, his brain full of facts and assumptions, statements of intent and promises, some of which were historical, and some of which had been dramatically set out before him by the small group of men sat silently behind him.

‘Ban the bomb…use the bomb... send more troops… bring the boys home…’

He rammed his hands onto his hips and set his jaw, examined his reflection and scowled at himself.

He turned round and slammed his hand on the desk.

“Goddamned censure? Is he really expecting us to believe that?”

“No way, Mister President, but Governor Arnall is talking about it just the same. Moreover, at the moment, he’s the only one that’s talking openly about it, Mister President, but others are following suit behind the scenes, stirring the pot.”

“Say that again, John.”

“It’s not just Arnall that’s talking up censure as a way of making you use the bomb and bring the boys home. Sure, Georgia’s taking the lead, but South Carolina, California, Florida, Michigan, Virginia, New York, and Texas are close behind. Not counting the few on the other side of the argument, who are also rumbling on the matter… I mean those who are tentatively backing the application of pressure to withdraw… either way, there is a ground swell of heavy muscle that is taking a stance against the way you are running this war.”

“On what grounds?”

“Mister President, on the grounds that you are failing to prosecute the war to the fullest extent and endangering American lives and the safety of the American nation by not so doing.”

“What?”

A session intended to discuss the changing situation in Britain and Canada had become something entirely different.

John R. Steelman, White House Chief of Staff, was the bearer of the bad news.

Truman resumed his seat and looked at each man in turn.

“Gentlemen, before we go any further with this session… has any of you brought me good news?”

The silence was heavy with meaning.

“George?”

George Marshall prepared himself to heap more bad news on top of it.

“Mister President… I have some figures here…”

“One moment, please. Henry?”

“I’m afraid not, Mister President.”

Henry Stimson had anything but good news to deliver.

Truman looked directly at James Byrnes, Secretary of State, and pursed his lips in a silent request.

“No, Sir. I am the bearer of bad tidings.”

Truman heard them all out, taking the latest casualty figures from Europe badly, the total American casualty figures since December 1941 now approaching two million, including a staggering total of six hundred and seventy thousand dead, two hundred and sixty-five thousand in the period commencing on August 6th 1945.

Considerably more than half the number that had died in the previous four years of war.

He winced as Secretary of State Byrnes relayed messages, ranging from concern to outrage, from heads of state or ambassadors, most accompanied by threats to withdraw direct support from the Allied cause.

Stimson and Marshall added to the sense of foreboding with their appreciation of the military situation, and the likely effects of continuing the struggle.

Stimson, in an attempt to be upbeat, played the technology card, talking of new tanks, new guns, new aircraft, all being made available to the boys on the front line, but nothing he said could hide the truth.

The Unites States capacity to wage war was intact, but the political situation was confused, with rival camps wanting peace or use of the bombs, entrenched polar opposites who wouldn’t budge.

Truman spoke to no-one in particular, simply giving voice to the turmoil in his head.

“So, all it’s gonna take is one single thing, one tragedy, one lost battle, one effective speech, one more bloody demonstration on an American street. That’s probably now all that is needed to bring it all crashing down around us, one way or the other.”

“Use the bomb, Mister President.”

Only Byrnes refrained from the call.

Steelman led the baying for its deployment.

“If the Allied nations are going to fall out, then to hell with it. Use the bomb… use it now… stop the rot spreading… stick one on the Communists and we will have all the public support back behind us… talk of censure will disappear because it’ll shut up the ‘go for broke’ lobby… people will see that our boys will prevail. If you prevaricate and the Allies start falling away, that’ll obviously give the anti-war movement steel in their backs and create more issues.”

“No.”

“But Sir, we must d…”

“I said no. We will not use the bombs and fracture the Allied cause. Without a strong Allied group, the Communists will prevail, if not now, then at some time in the future. I will not pass on that legacy to the world. I will NOT! We WILL maintain the Allied grouping at all costs. Am I clear on that point, gentlemen?”

There was little to be unclear about.

The meeting terminated with no further decisions, save to diplomatically massage the Allies, pressurise the Canadians as nicely as possible, and to sympathetically and publically support Churchill in his struggle against public discontent the length and breadth of the United Kingdom and beyond.

It was also decided to review the military plan and reduce US exposure to the barest minimum.

Truman enjoyed a moment’s solitude before the door opened and one of his secret service agents stuck his head around it.

“Sir, your eleven-thirty is still waiting.”

Truman looked at the clock and grinned momentarily.

‘11.50. Let the man wait a while longer.’

Truman grinned at his own thoughts.

‘Petulance isn’t your style, Harry. Let him have his say.’

“Thank you, Raoul. Please have him shown in.”

Thomas Edmund Dewey, Governor of New York, strode in, with the two NY senators, James M. Mead and Robert F. Wagner, close on his flanks.

Truman shook hands with the three men and motioned them towards seating.

“So, my apologies for the delay. How may I help you, gentlemen?

Dewey took the lead.

“That’s simple, Mister President. You can either fight the goddamned war with every weapon God has given you, saving the lives of countless American boys along the way, or you can resign and let someone with the cojones take the lead. Which’ll it be?”

Within fifteen seconds, members of the Secret Service charged into the room, expecting to find a huge mob out of hand, such was the violence of the short conversation.

Truman and the three politicians did not part on good terms.