Berlin or Bust

^{CHAPTER FIVE} ENGLAND

The cloud cover broke to reveal water below. The Fallschirm had finally achieved its dream of crossing the English Channel.

Unless the British shot them down first.

“We’ve got company,” Steiner told Schulte.

Spitfires, Typhoons, and Hurricanes braced the squadron on all quadrants, leading them toward England.

“Hmm,” murmured Schulte, who was trying to sleep. “What company?”

“Enemy planes.”

Schulte crossed his arms and nestled back into his seat.

Steiner snorted. “How can you nap at a time like this?”

“Are you afraid they’re going to shoot us down, comrade?”

“Of course I’m afraid they’re going to shoot us down.”

“Then do something about it besides keeping me awake with your whining.”

As always, Steiner found the sniper insufferable. He turned away to look out the windows again. Below, land returned, brown beaches followed by the odd geometric patches of farms freckled with snow cover.

Then an X appeared, the familiar shape of an airfield.

“Where do you…?” Steiner kept the rest of his thoughts to himself. He’d learned his lesson about talking to Schulte.

Next to him, the sniper’s lips curled into a slight smile.

Some of the transports had already started landing. Steiner’s plane reduced altitude but began to circle the airfield. Freezing air whistled through the cabin.

Reiser marched to the cockpit. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure it’s safe,” the co-pilot shouted back.

“Do we have orders to land?”

“Ja.”

“Do we have enough fuel to get back to Genoa?”

“Nein.”

“Then land the plane, idiots!” the lieutenant screamed.

“Christ, please don’t shoot them,” Steiner muttered to himself.

Next to him, Schulte chuckled.

The pilots steered into a sharp turn, banking to line up the Junkers for a landing.

“Oh, no,” the sniper opined in falsetto. “Where are we? Who are those bad men? Who am I?”

“Shut up, Erich,” Steiner said.

The sniper laughed. “The children are crying and I don’t have any soup. They’re so hungry, Otto. And mother says—”

Steiner sighed as the wheels slammed the airstrip. The propeller hum’s pitch deepened to a throttled roar. The plane rolled until braking bled out its momentum. Royal Air Force ground crews guided the plane toward a hangar.

Reiser stood and opened the door. The men stared at him, expecting a speech.

“Get off the plane,” he barked. “Fall in at attention.”

The paratroopers stood with a fierce shout and put on their steel helmets, which lacked brims and had camouflage cloth covers. They snapped the leather chinstraps into place and straightened their uniforms.

The Fallschirmjäger marched off the plane in perfect time and formed up on the airstrip as the Junkers’ three engines powered down. Nearby, Oberst Heilman, the regiment’s commander, and his staff met with a crowd of Brit and Ami officers. They all saluted each other, another milestone on this bizarre day.

Hauptmann Werner marched past the platoon with his own headquarters, pausing to point out a hangar to Reiser. “Billet there and await orders.”

Reiser clicked his heels. “Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann. Platoon, marsch, marsch!” Yes, indeed, Captain. Platoon, march, march!

The man marched crisply and smartly, already belting out a song. For the paratroopers, pride and cockiness had become as instinctive as aggression and obedience. The column tramped in perfect time into the hangar.

Several platoons of British and American soldiers were already billeted there, stowing their gear after the day’s training exercises. The Americans gawked while the British eyed them warily with their hands thrust in their trouser pockets.

With their red berets, these Brits were airborne, the fierce paras called the Red Devils. The Americans were likely airborne soldiery as well, elite fighters.

“Look out, fellas,” one of the Amis said, “here come the Supermen!”

Steiner knew some English, as did some of the other Fallschirmjäger. “And here are the Amis,” he muttered, “chewing their gum.”

The Germans had their Italians, the British their Americans. The Americans hadn’t fought so well at the start, but damn, they enjoyed an endless supply of equipment, especially devastating artillery and airpower. They’d learned fast and had become formidable opponents, though nobody was as tough as the indomitable British, particularly these Red Devils.

Still, he’d never fought the American airborne infantry. These men had battled from Normandy to Germany and were rumored to be among the best the Amis had.

Leutnant Reiser nodded at the Tommies, returning their wary glare, then sneered back at the Americans. “This is to be our new home, jägers.” His eyes flickered to take in his troops. “We will show our enemies how the Fallschirmjäger conduct themselves as professional soldiers. Is that clear?”

“Jawohl, Herr Leutnant,” Steiner roared with the rest of the platoon.

“Fall out and stow the equipment.”

The men stacked their weapons, hauled the battered weapons containers into the hangar, and then argued over bunks.

One of the Americans sauntered over. “Welcome to RAF Station Martlesham Heath.” He held out a pack of Chesterfields. “Cigarette, Jerry?”

The American wasn’t much to look at. Medium height, average build. He had a boyish face belied by the eyes of an old man. The same eyes as many veterans of this war, something important they had in common.

“Danke,” Steiner said. He refused to smoke the ersatz cigarettes handed out by the Wehrmacht but wouldn’t refuse an American brand. “Thank you.”

The paratrooper looked surprised. “You speak American?”

“A little.”

The American surprised Steiner in turn by thrusting out his hand. “Corporal Frank Grillo, 101st Airborne.”

Another soldier growled from a card game, “Quit fraternizing with the Krauts, Grillo.”

Steiner had to agree. If the lieutenant caught him talking to the Americans, there’d be some imaginative and cruel punishment. You like the Amis, Steiner? How about you dig them a latrine? Schnell, schnell!

“Haven’t you heard, Sarge?” the paratrooper said. “They’re our allies now.”

Which was another fair point. Still, Steiner didn’t trust it. The 101st Airborne had been nearly annihilated in the Ardennes Snow during Autumn Mist. It was obvious Corporal Grillo had gone through hell. The kid had killed Germans and very likely developed a taste for it, fueled on hate.

Steiner felt the same way after fighting the U.S. II Corps along the Gustav Line. He had to admit it was hard to stand so close to an American soldier—one who wasn’t a prisoner—without lunging for the man’s throat in self-defense.

He wondered what genius had come up with the idea of the Germans billeting between the Americans and British. Allies or not, he was bunking with his gravity knife under his pillow tonight, not that he expected to get any sleep.

“Hey, listen,” Grillo went on. “Since we’re friends now, you up for a trade?”

Steiner blinked. “A what?”

“You got a Luger?”

“Ja, ja, I have a Luger.”

The kid grinned. “What do you want for it?”

Steiner laughed. So that explained the odd friendliness. This unteroffizier wanted a worthless Luger to bring home as a war trophy.

“What’s so funny, Jerry?”

“You have no idea how much we envy you Americans.”

“Freedom and apple pie, pal. You Nazis should try it.”

“I am not a Nazi. And I meant we envy your equipment.”

“You’re a machine-gunner, right?”

“Ja,” said Steiner.

“Hitler’s zipper. That’s what we call it from the sound.” The MG42 fired so fast, one couldn’t hear individual bullets. “What I’m trying to say is you have some pretty good weapons too.”

Steiner had meant the quantity of equipment, not its quality, which he didn’t think too much of. No matter. “Ja, perhaps, but the barrel overheads—”

Grillo’s expression soured. “You want to trade or not? I don’t have all day.”

Schulte called out, “How’s the diplomacy going, Otto?”

Steiner turned to share the exchange with his comrades. “The Amis are souvenir shopping. Anybody want to trade his Luger?”

Some of the Fallschirm looked around and, seeing no officers, broke into devious smiles. They stepped forward with eagerness.

“Remember, comrades,” Steiner told them, “if you want me to translate for you, you’ll have to give me two Ami cigarettes.”

The Americans quieted to watch the tense negotiation unfold. Animal walked away with an armful of chocolate, cigarettes, and dirty magazines.

“If the lieutenant finds out, you’ll be in big trouble,” Steiner told him.

Animal gave him a menacing smile. “Then we’d better not tell him.”

“You know me, comrade. I don’t mess with guys who stand behind me in battle with a flamethrower.”

The big paratrooper laughed and marched to his bunk with his booty.

Steiner called after him, “You still owe me two smokes, though, Schneider!”

“Nice doing business with you, Jerry,” Grillo said.

“Otto.”

“What?”

“My name is Otto.”

The kid nodded. “Otto it is.” Then he held his Luger high for his friends. “Look what I got!”

His sergeant shook his head. “You just got taken, Grillo.”

The Americans shot glances at each other. Then a third of them jumped up and crowded around Steiner, shouting offers while the Red Devils looked on in silent contempt.