The Steel Wave - Jeff Shaara [53]
To one side, another man moved closer, an older man, the one Patton was actually supposed to talk to. “Patrolling regularly, sir. We’re doing the same thing in Scotland. The idea is to keep the Jerries at high altitude, give their observers only a rough look. Can’t have anyone dipping in too close, so the RAF boys stay down here, making a good show of prowling low altitudes.”
It made sense. Patton glanced at him, saw a brief smile, Patton’s own lips twitched, the man’s joviality reaching him despite his best efforts to keep it away. “Sounds like they’ve thought of just about everything, Colonel.”
“Just about, sir.”
The older man was Rory MacLeod, and where Patton’s fictitious command encompassed southeastern England, MacLeod held a similar ficticious post in Scotland. The deception plan had a name now, Operation Fortitude, and British intelligence officers were already aware that the details they had planted of Patton’s new “army” had become well known in Germany. To add to the legitimacy of the deception, Colonel MacLeod had been named to command the northern wing of Fortitude, one more part of the show, designed to convince the Germans that while Patton would invade France at Calais, MacLeod would deliver the massive British Fourth Army into Norway. Just like Patton’s First U.S. Army Group, MacLeod’s Fourth Army didn’t really exist.
Patton moved toward the tanks, studied them, shook his head. “What are they, rubber? Looks like something at a county fair.”
The major came close again. Patton could feel the man’s annoying burst of energy. “Oh, they’re quite convincing from the air, sir. Would you care to touch one up close? They’re really not much more than large balloons.”
The word stabbed Patton. Good God, I command a field of balloons! “Inflated no doubt by a flock of your politicians.”
“Oh, yes, jolly good, sir.”
“Skip it, Major. Those trucks out there, they look more substantial. Can’t be steel. What are they, plywood?”
He didn’t wait for the response but moved into the field, the others scampering to keep up with him. He walked quickly past the tanks—couldn’t bear to look at them, poor fakes of the armor he so loved. The trucks were in a short row, others beyond, scattered; when he looked down he was surprised to see tank tracks in the soft dirt.
The annoying major was there again. “Amazing, isn’t it, sir? They thought of everything. Tracks all across the field, the illusion of constant movement. Any Jerry flying above would see those tracks, one more reason to believe these are the genuine article.”
Patton tried to ignore the major completely, saw motion along the far row of trees, a line of cows emerging. They ambled into the field, a ragged line working through the artificial trucks. Patton watched them coming. What would the Jerries think they were, armored cars? One cow stopped, moved away from the others, and Patton could see it was not a cow at all but a large bull. The major began to talk again, annoyingly cheerful, and Patton, still ignoring him, watched as the bull began to paw the ground. Patton put a hand on one of his pistols, thought, All right, Ferdinand, you decide you want to take a closer look at me, you better think again. The bull made an audible snort and lunged forward, the major suddenly aware.
“Oh, my word!”
The bull rammed into the side of a plywood truck, sheets of wood and timbers coming apart and falling all around him, the counterfeit truck now unrecognizable. Oblivious, the bull stumbled his way through the wreckage, and Patton began to laugh, high and hard, his hands resting on his pistols. “Well, now. Seems this damned army has been exposed for what it is.”
There was only a scattering of laughter behind him.
Patton laughed for a long moment, but the humor was sliding away, so he wiped a tear from one eye and looked toward MacLeod. “A mighty fine show, eh, Colonel? We’re in command of the most idiotic plan ever devised. Hell