pilot error, enemy fire and instrument fatigue were not so. It was the higher altitudes.… Only twenty-four hours ago a squadron of bombers on the Bremerhaven run had scrambled out of the strike, exacting the maximum from their aircraft, and regrouped far above oxygen levels. From what could be determined, the guidance systems went crazy; the squadron ended up in the Dunbar sector near the Scottish border. All but one plane crashed into the sea. Three survivors were picked up by coastal patrols. Three out of God knows how many that had made it out of Bremerhaven. The one aircraft that attempted a ground landing had blown up on the outskirts of a town.… No survivors.
Germany was in the curve of inevitable defeat, but it would not die easily. It was ready for counterstrike. The Russian lesson had been learned; Hitler’s generals were prepared. They realized that ultimately their only hope for any surrender other than
unconditional
lay in their ability to make the cost of an Allied victory so high it would stagger imagination and sicken the conscience of humanity.
Accommodation would then be reached.
And
that
was unacceptable to the Allies.
Unconditional surrender
was now a tripartite policy; the absolute had been so inculcated that it dared not be tampered with. The fever of total victory had swept the lands; the leaders had shaped that, too. And at this pitch of frenzy, the leaders stared into blank walls seeing nothing others could see and said heroically that losses would be tolerated.
Swanson walked up the steps of the Georgetown house. As if on cue, the door opened, a major saluted and Swanson was admitted quickly. Inside the hallway were four noncommissioned officers in paratroop leggings standing at ready-at-ease; Swanson recognized the shoulder patches of the Ranger battalions. The War Department had set the scene effectively.
A sergeant ushered Swanson into a small, brass-grilled elevator. Two stories up the elevator stopped and Swanson stepped out into the corridor. He recognized the face of the colonel who stood by a closed door at the end of the short hallway. He could not recall his name, however. The man worked in Clandestine Operations and was never much in evidence. The colonel stepped forward, saluting.
“General Swanson? Colonel Pace.”
Swanson nodded his salute, offering his hand instead. “Oh, yes. Ed Pace, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So they pulled you out of the cellars. I didn’t know this was your territory.”
“It’s not, sir. Just that I’ve had occasion to meet the men you’re seeing. Security clearances.”
“And with you here they know we’re serious.” Swanson smiled.
“I’m sure we are, but I don’t know what we’re serious about.”
“You’re lucky. Who’s inside?”
“Howard Oliver from Meridian. Jonathan Craft from Packard. And the lab man, Spinelli, from ATCO.”
“They’ll make my day; I can’t wait. Who’s presiding? Christ, there should be
one
person on our side.”
“Vandamm.”
Swanson’s lips formed a quiet whistle; the colonel nodded in agreement. Frederic Vandamm was Undersecretary of State and rumored to be Cordell Hull’s closestassociate. If one wanted to reach Roosevelt, the best way was through Hull; if that avenue was closed, one pursued Vandamm.
“That’s impressive artillery,” Swanson said.
“When they saw him, I think he scared the hell out of Craft and Oliver. Spinelli’s in a perpetual daze. He’d figure Patton for a doorman.”
“I don’t know Spinelli, except by rep. He’s supposed to be the best gyro man in the labs.… Oliver and Craft I know
too
well. I wish to hell you boys had never cleared them for road maps.”
“Not much you can do when they own the roads, sir.” The colonel shrugged. It was obvious he agreed with Swanson’s estimate.
“I’ll give you a clue, Pace. Craft’s a social-register flunky. Oliver’s the bad meat.”
“He’s got a lot of it on him,” replied the colonel, laughing
Germany was in the curve of inevitable defeat, but it would not die easily. It was ready for counterstrike. The Russian lesson had been learned; Hitler’s generals were prepared. They realized that ultimately their only hope for any surrender other than
unconditional
lay in their ability to make the cost of an Allied victory so high it would stagger imagination and sicken the conscience of humanity.
Accommodation would then be reached.
And
that
was unacceptable to the Allies.
Unconditional surrender
was now a tripartite policy; the absolute had been so inculcated that it dared not be tampered with. The fever of total victory had swept the lands; the leaders had shaped that, too. And at this pitch of frenzy, the leaders stared into blank walls seeing nothing others could see and said heroically that losses would be tolerated.
Swanson walked up the steps of the Georgetown house. As if on cue, the door opened, a major saluted and Swanson was admitted quickly. Inside the hallway were four noncommissioned officers in paratroop leggings standing at ready-at-ease; Swanson recognized the shoulder patches of the Ranger battalions. The War Department had set the scene effectively.
A sergeant ushered Swanson into a small, brass-grilled elevator. Two stories up the elevator stopped and Swanson stepped out into the corridor. He recognized the face of the colonel who stood by a closed door at the end of the short hallway. He could not recall his name, however. The man worked in Clandestine Operations and was never much in evidence. The colonel stepped forward, saluting.
“General Swanson? Colonel Pace.”
Swanson nodded his salute, offering his hand instead. “Oh, yes. Ed Pace, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So they pulled you out of the cellars. I didn’t know this was your territory.”
“It’s not, sir. Just that I’ve had occasion to meet the men you’re seeing. Security clearances.”
“And with you here they know we’re serious.” Swanson smiled.
“I’m sure we are, but I don’t know what we’re serious about.”
“You’re lucky. Who’s inside?”
“Howard Oliver from Meridian. Jonathan Craft from Packard. And the lab man, Spinelli, from ATCO.”
“They’ll make my day; I can’t wait. Who’s presiding? Christ, there should be
one
person on our side.”
“Vandamm.”
Swanson’s lips formed a quiet whistle; the colonel nodded in agreement. Frederic Vandamm was Undersecretary of State and rumored to be Cordell Hull’s closestassociate. If one wanted to reach Roosevelt, the best way was through Hull; if that avenue was closed, one pursued Vandamm.
“That’s impressive artillery,” Swanson said.
“When they saw him, I think he scared the hell out of Craft and Oliver. Spinelli’s in a perpetual daze. He’d figure Patton for a doorman.”
“I don’t know Spinelli, except by rep. He’s supposed to be the best gyro man in the labs.… Oliver and Craft I know
too
well. I wish to hell you boys had never cleared them for road maps.”
“Not much you can do when they own the roads, sir.” The colonel shrugged. It was obvious he agreed with Swanson’s estimate.
“I’ll give you a clue, Pace. Craft’s a social-register flunky. Oliver’s the bad meat.”
“He’s got a lot of it on him,” replied the colonel, laughing
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