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Three of his P-38s, following orders he had given them out of hearing of the strategic genius, dropped their bombs that instant and turned to take on the Messerschmidts. The three were in the rear. In case it got as far as an official inquiry, all the others could truthfully swear they hadn’t seen anybody drop bombs in contravention of specific orders not to do so.

That turned out to be a moot point anyway. There were forty-odd German fighters, and not one of the three P-38s who rose to meet them made it back to England.

The Germans had cleverly designed their 88mm aircraft cannon so the muzzle could be depressed for use against tanks and other ground forces. Thus, when the sub pens came into view, they were partially obscured by the bursts of ack-ack shells.

Six P-38s were shot down by antiaircraft fire. Three of them simply disappeared in a puff of smoke. These had obviously been hit by the 88s. There was no way to tell whether the other three were downed by 88s, 20mm Oerlikon automatic cannons, or machine-gun fire.

Twenty-two P-38s successfully completed the bomb run. Of the forty-four 500-pound bombs “thrown” toward the sub pen entrances, it was estimated that eighteen or twenty entered the sub pens. Aerial reconnaissance indicated that these had done little or no damage.

Two P-38s were lost on the return leg of the flight, one of them to a Messerschmidt ME-109E and the other to unknown causes. Possibly a wounded pilot lost consciousness. A final fatality occurred at Ibsley when a P-38 attempted a wheels-up landing and exploded on contact with the runway.

A story circulated through the officers’ messes of the Eighth Air Force that the group commander of the 311th Fighter Group—“Those poor bastards who got the shit kicked out of them at Saint-Lazare sub pens”—committed a physical assault upon the Eighth Air Force Plans and Training Officer whose idea the mission had been.

According to the story, the assault had been hushed up. The Commander of the 311th was a West Pointer, for one thing, and he’d been a Flying Tiger with ten kills for another, and for a third, his own P-38 had been shot up so badly they didn’t even consider repairing it. They just hauled it off to the boneyard.

Chapter THREE

Frankfurt am Main, Germany

24 December 1942

As the Berlin-Frankfurt train backed into Frankfurt’s Hauptbahnhof, Obersturmbannführer Johann Müller stood in the aisle of the first-class coach looking out the window. The station platforms were covered by a glass-and-steel arch, as if an enormous tube had been slit in half lengthwise and placed over the tracks. The framework of the arch remained intact, but many, perhaps most, of the glass windows had been blown out by bombing. Snow had come through these openings, leaving a soot-colored slush over most of the platform.

Müller’s policeman’s eye saw, too, the security in place. At the far end of the station, in order to make sure that no one left the platform by way of the yards, there stood two gray-uniformed members of the Feldgendarmerie (Military Police) and a civilian wearing an ankle-length leather overcoat and a gray snap-brim felt hat.

In theory, the civilian was working in plainclothes to facilitate his efforts in defense of Reich security. In practice, since only persons with a special ration coupon had access to full-length leather coats, he might as well have worn a hatband with “Gestapo” printed on it.

As a general rule of thumb, Obersturmbannführer Müller did not have much respect for the Gestapo. There were some genuine detectives in its ranks, but the bulk of them were patrolman types promoted over their abilities. You didn’t have to be much of a detective if you were armed with power to arrest without giving a reason, and could then conduct an “interrogation, ” which generally began with stripping the suspect naked and beating him senseless before any questions were put to him.

Near the station end of the platform were the checkpoints. One was manned by the Feldgendarmerie and the other by the Railway Police. The first checked the identity and

travel documents of military personnel— Army, Navy, and Air Force—and the other checked everyone else. Two more men in leather overcoats and snap-brim caps stood where they could watch this procedure.

Müller was a little surprised to see two black-uniformed men as well, an SS-Hauptsturmführer (Captain) and an SS-Scharführer (Staff Sergeant) standing to one side behind the Railway Police checkpoint. The SS-SD rarely wasted its time standing around railway platforms.

When the train stopped, Müller took his leather suitcase from his compartment, stepped off the train, and walked the few steps to the checkpoints. Before he could take his credentials from his pocket, the Hauptsturmführer, smiling, walked up to him, gave the stiff-armed salute, and barked, “Herr Obersturmbannführer Müller?”

“I’m Müller.”

“Heil Hitler!” the Hauptsturmführer said, and then barked again: “Take the Obersturmbannführer’s luggage, Scharführer!”

The Scharführer took Müller’s suitcase from his hand.

“Standartenführer Kramer sent us to meet you, Herr Obersturmbannführer, ” the Hauptsturmführer said. “He hopes that your schedule will permit you to call upon him, but if you are pressed for time, we are at your service to take you where you wish to go.”

“Very kind of the Standartenführer,” Müller said. “I look forward to seeing him.”

Müller knew Kramer slightly. He was the commanding officer of the Hessian region of the SS-SD. He was a jovial man, fat, a p olitician,a man who had become what he was because of who and not what he knew. Müller wondered what the hell he wanted.

An Opel Admiral, obviously Kramer’s own official car, was parked outside the Hauptbahnhof. With the cooperation of the policeman on duty, it made an illegal U-turn and drove Müller to SS-SD headquarters for Hesse, a turn-of-the century villa across a wide lawn from the curved corporate headquarters of the I.G. Farben Chemical Company. On the way, they passed the Frankfurt office building of FEG, the Fulmar Elektrische Gesellschaft.

“My dear Johnny,” Kramer said when he saw Müller in his office door, and then he came from behind his desk, hand extended. “I’m glad they found you.”

He did not, Müller noticed, say “Heil Hitler!”

“Having me met was very kind of you, Herr Standartenführer,” Müller said.

“You don’t know, do you?” Kramer asked happily. “I rather thought you might not.”