is a form of the craft utterly unknown to me. But I’d like to know how it works.” It looked like magic without blood. Was that even possible?
Marsh looked at Stephenson, then back to Will. “You’ll do it, then? You’ll help us?”
“I am at your service,” said Will.
“Welcome to Milkweed,” said Stephenson.
four
9-10 May 1940
Ardennes Forest, Belgium
T he Götterelektrongruppe sped through a moonlit forest in a six-wheeled Panzerspähwagen. Klaus rode in the back, along with a massive store of replacement batteries. The road swerved around hills and dipped through gullies. The armored scout car had minimal suspension; every bump in the road jostled the occupants as they sped along.
A two-hundred-meter-wide swath of old-growth forest and underbrush disappeared in their wake, flattened and incinerated in an orgy of willpower. On the left, impenetrable stands of beech and spruce disappeared behind the bulwark of blue fire racing alongside the truck. On the right, centuries-old oaks and sapling firs disintegrated as though ripped apart by a giant thresher.
The car was designed for a crew of five; they numbered six. Reinhardt and Kammler sat in front, crammed next to their driver. Buhlerhuddled behind Kammler, in the gunner’s seat. His leg jounced up and down as he yanked on the imbecile’s leash. Gretel was in the rear, next to Klaus, where the radio operator normally sat. She sat with her head tipped back, eyes closed but looking ahead.
Reinhardt and Kammler drained their packs with wild, amphetamine-fueled abandon. Klaus relayed new batteries up front as his comrades swapped out the depleted packs. At first they had stopped every few kilometers to change the batteries. After a while they had found a rhythm, though, and now they moved like clockwork.
They were the tip of the spear. By morning, the three Panzerkorps of German Army Group A would barrel through the newly opened forest, circumventing the Maginot Line and tearing into France’s soft, undefended interior.
Their leaders called it Operation Sichelschnitt: the cut of the sickle.
The engine rumble made a contrabass counterpoint to the white noise
whoosh
of fire and imploding wood stock. Outside, the night smelled like the workshop of an overzealous carpenter, singed sawdust and pulped lumber. It stank inside the car. Kammler had crapped himself.
“Crush. Crush. Crush,” Buhler rasped. Hours of screaming, then chanting, the same mantra had given his voice the texture of sandpaper.
At some point during the night, they crossed from Belgium into France, though even with a map it was impossible to tell when or where.
Gretel sat up. She said, “Fortification, two minutes ahead. Sentries will hear us forty seconds from now.” Klaus shifted his weight as their driver, a combat driving specialist reassigned from the elite LSSAH unit of the Waffen-SS, applied the brakes. “Seventy seconds from now. Ninety.” The truck puttered to a stop. “The sentries will not hear us,” Gretel concluded.
She turned, smirking. “But Hauptsturmführer Buhler will fall in a thistle when he goes to piss in the woods.”
“Crazy bitch. You say that every time we stop. You’re trying to make me hold it all night.”
She shrugged.
Everyone climbed out. Buhler handed Kammler’s leash over to thedriver, who wrinkled his nose. The crackle of underbrush receded as Buhler strode off to relieve himself. Reinhardt leaned against the cab. He lifted a cigarette to his mouth with trembling hands. The amphetamines had him wound so tightly, he almost vibrated. Moonlight shone in the whites of his eyes. A tiny orange flame momentarily engulfed the tip of the cigarette. Klaus knew that the cigarette wouldn’t mask the taste in Reinhardt’s mouth.
The heavy fortifications—the
grands ouvrages
—of the Maginot Line didn’t extend through the Ardennes. The forest had long been considered impassable with heavy armor. And so it had been, until to
Marsh looked at Stephenson, then back to Will. “You’ll do it, then? You’ll help us?”
“I am at your service,” said Will.
“Welcome to Milkweed,” said Stephenson.
four
9-10 May 1940
Ardennes Forest, Belgium
T he Götterelektrongruppe sped through a moonlit forest in a six-wheeled Panzerspähwagen. Klaus rode in the back, along with a massive store of replacement batteries. The road swerved around hills and dipped through gullies. The armored scout car had minimal suspension; every bump in the road jostled the occupants as they sped along.
A two-hundred-meter-wide swath of old-growth forest and underbrush disappeared in their wake, flattened and incinerated in an orgy of willpower. On the left, impenetrable stands of beech and spruce disappeared behind the bulwark of blue fire racing alongside the truck. On the right, centuries-old oaks and sapling firs disintegrated as though ripped apart by a giant thresher.
The car was designed for a crew of five; they numbered six. Reinhardt and Kammler sat in front, crammed next to their driver. Buhlerhuddled behind Kammler, in the gunner’s seat. His leg jounced up and down as he yanked on the imbecile’s leash. Gretel was in the rear, next to Klaus, where the radio operator normally sat. She sat with her head tipped back, eyes closed but looking ahead.
Reinhardt and Kammler drained their packs with wild, amphetamine-fueled abandon. Klaus relayed new batteries up front as his comrades swapped out the depleted packs. At first they had stopped every few kilometers to change the batteries. After a while they had found a rhythm, though, and now they moved like clockwork.
They were the tip of the spear. By morning, the three Panzerkorps of German Army Group A would barrel through the newly opened forest, circumventing the Maginot Line and tearing into France’s soft, undefended interior.
Their leaders called it Operation Sichelschnitt: the cut of the sickle.
The engine rumble made a contrabass counterpoint to the white noise
whoosh
of fire and imploding wood stock. Outside, the night smelled like the workshop of an overzealous carpenter, singed sawdust and pulped lumber. It stank inside the car. Kammler had crapped himself.
“Crush. Crush. Crush,” Buhler rasped. Hours of screaming, then chanting, the same mantra had given his voice the texture of sandpaper.
At some point during the night, they crossed from Belgium into France, though even with a map it was impossible to tell when or where.
Gretel sat up. She said, “Fortification, two minutes ahead. Sentries will hear us forty seconds from now.” Klaus shifted his weight as their driver, a combat driving specialist reassigned from the elite LSSAH unit of the Waffen-SS, applied the brakes. “Seventy seconds from now. Ninety.” The truck puttered to a stop. “The sentries will not hear us,” Gretel concluded.
She turned, smirking. “But Hauptsturmführer Buhler will fall in a thistle when he goes to piss in the woods.”
“Crazy bitch. You say that every time we stop. You’re trying to make me hold it all night.”
She shrugged.
Everyone climbed out. Buhler handed Kammler’s leash over to thedriver, who wrinkled his nose. The crackle of underbrush receded as Buhler strode off to relieve himself. Reinhardt leaned against the cab. He lifted a cigarette to his mouth with trembling hands. The amphetamines had him wound so tightly, he almost vibrated. Moonlight shone in the whites of his eyes. A tiny orange flame momentarily engulfed the tip of the cigarette. Klaus knew that the cigarette wouldn’t mask the taste in Reinhardt’s mouth.
The heavy fortifications—the
grands ouvrages
—of the Maginot Line didn’t extend through the Ardennes. The forest had long been considered impassable with heavy armor. And so it had been, until to
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