America Under Attack: An Alternative History of World War Two
by Jeff Kildow
Copyright ©2012 by Jeff Kildow
Originally published 2010 by Intermedia Publishing Group
Trade paperback ISBN: 978-1-9386241-7-9
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-9386241-8-6
Cover design by Martijn van Tilborgh
America Under Attack is also available on Amazon Kindle, Apple iBooks and Barnes & Noble Nook.
America Under Attack is a work of fiction. The reader should understand that all incidents and dialogue and all characters in this novel, with the exception of certain actual historical or public figures, are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed to be real. Where actual, real-life historical or public persons are depicted, the situations, incidents, and dialogue concerning these persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change in any way the fictional nature of this work. With these exceptions, any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means – electronic, mechanical, digital photocopy, recording, or any other without the prior permission of the author.
All rights reserved solely by the author. The author guarantees all contents are original and do not infringe upon the legal rights of any other person or work. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the permission of the author.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my loving and patient wife, Janell,
and to the memory of my mother Shirley,
the most avid reader I’ve ever known.
Contents
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
TO THE READER
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks go out to my former Lockheed Martin colleague and fellow writer, Julie Dodd, for her early encouragement to take this project from concept to reality.
I would like to express my appreciation to Marty Coniglio, meteorologist at Denver’s 9NEWS for his invaluable insights into weather forecasting in the 1940s, and the tip that lead to a wonderful plot idea.
My warmest regards go to Lisa Jester, Director of the Millville Army Air Field Museum, and Dona Vertolli, Museum Board member, for spending a full day with me on my research trip to New Jersey. My view of Millville AAF was broadened and deepened as a result of their efforts. Through them, I was introduced to Bill Rich, WWII fighter pilot and gunnery instructor at Millville, and Bill Hogan, a B-24 tail gunner and POW. It was a privilege to meet these gentlemen, and an honor to share their stories; my novel and my life is richer for the experience.
My thanks to Bob Francis, Town Historian, Millville Historical Society, for the opportunity to learn about civilian life in Millville during the war years.
I appreciate the time spent by Pastor Ken Kelly of Foothills Bible Church reviewing sections of my novel for Christian soundness, and for his cheerful encouragement.
Hearty thanks to my long time friend Don Shipman, and my sister, DJ Smith for thoughtful reviews of drafts and kind criticisms.
TO THE READER
The genre of alternative history is relatively new and often results in quizzical looks when I mention it. The essence of the genre is that an author asks himself “what if?” thus and so did or didn’t happen in history, and the story flows from there.
For this novel, I have assumed that Germany developed long range, heavy bombers along with their adversaries Great Britain and America. The consequences of such development are the core of the story.
I attempted to restrict new weapons in the story to the technology available in the 1940s (not easy, when you “know” a better way to do it!). As an example, airborne RADARs in that era were restricted to about ten miles in range, which is frustratingly short for an author. I also took advantage of existing, but undeveloped technologies, the best example of which is air-to-air refueling, which was experimented with by the Germans in the late ’30s and early ’40s. It never gained the necessary backing from unimaginative generals, and so never came to fruition. Two-way trans-oceanic flight was just within the technology of the times, and with a gentle nudge by the author, happens in the story.
In some cases, events occur earlier in the story than they did in real life, in order to make the story work. The sad state of disarray of the defense of America’s eastern seaboard is fact; we can thank God it was never tested.
1936
Chapter 1
13 June 1936
Te
mplehof Airport, Berlin, Germany
1030 Hours
Air Show
Straight down; the gray-white runway rushing up at him. Heart pounding, stomach clenching, and bile in the throat. The deep roar of the engine now a banshee’s scream; the ground hurtling up at him. Time slowed.
Stick back. Careful. Watch altitude. Wings level.
The seat cushion pinched his leg as the G’s built.
Full throttle. Airspeed 350. Heat bumps from the runway. Level now, hold it, hold it; altitude 200 feet.
Spectators flashed by on the left, then the nose came up. More G’s.
Fifteen hundred feet, knife edge turn to the right. There!
Joel Knight took measured breaths, to slow down his heart. He grinned; this Curtiss P-36 Hawk fighter was a sweetheart. He completed the 180 degree turn.
Around now, roll to the left, runway in sight. Nose down, airspeed building.
“This has to be perfect,” he said out loud through gritted teeth, his gut a hard knot, eyes intensely focused, his left leg all but dancing with adrenalin, the control stick a live thing in his hand.
Airspeed – 170; good. Level wings.
Careful; the aircraft was so low the propeller tips were clearing the runway by inches. Unseen by him, little tornados of dust blew back from the wings.
Right wing down – a great cascade of sparks arced into the air from the steel rod on the wing tip. Unheard by him, a ragged wave of gasps raced through the crowd.
Wings level. Left wing down, a second shower of sparks. End of the spectators.
Nose up, 45 degrees; hold it. Aloud again: “Now, four point roll: one, good; two; not as good; three, yes; four, right where it needed to be. And done.” He blew out his breath.
He climbed to 1500 feet, making a broad, gentle left turn, parallel to the runway a mile away, slowing now, his portion of the air show over. His heart rate began to slow; he blew out several more breaths, relaxing the tension. He prepared to land.
“Ladies and gentlemen, kindly applaud U.S. Army First Lieutenant Joel Knight, in his prototype Curtiss P-36 Hawk pursuit ship,” the announcer droned, first in German, then French and English. Joel taxied past the spectators, zigzagging the tail, canopy back, a small silk American flag snapping in the prop’s blast, the engine’s lopping idle punctuating each wag of the tail. He waved a gloved hand, and smiled, showing his teeth. The aircraft’s polished aluminum skin was a stark contrast to the dull greens and grays of the German, English and French aircraft parked nearby.
As he stopped, he saw Major Sandoval, and he wasn’t smiling.
Uh, oh, Joel thought, he sure doesn’t look happy.
The older man’s jaw was clenched, his arms crossed on his chest. Joel shut down the aircraft, and turned it over to the waiting crewmen.
“Joel, are you out of your mind? What are you thinking? That wing drop pass was way too fast – are you trying crash in front of the whole world?” Major Sandoval demanded, waving his arms. “A great impression that would make! We’re trying to sell these airplanes, not crack ’em up! What have I told you about bold pilots?” His neck veins were bulging.
“Sorry, sir,” Joel tried to look contrite, “‘there are bold pilots, and there are old pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots.’ But it came off pretty well, didn’t it? I mean, the air was bumpy, and the speed smoothed it out, and –” his voice trailed off at the continued scowl. He chanced an engaging smile, “How did the crowd like it?”
The major looked at him, frowning. “Joel, you are incorrigible. I’ve never seen a pilot execute a maneuver so precisely. Yes, you bloody fool, the crowd loved it. And so did the Germans, it seems. There’s a German Captain looking for you.”
He shook his head, visibly less angry, cajoling; “For God’s sake, Joel, please be more careful; I don’t want to write a condolence letter to your mother. Seriously, now, your margin of error is just too small at that speed; the sparks fly just as high at 130. Don’t make me ground you.” The threat was not an idle one, Joel knew. Then, there was a slight smile; Joel was forgiven. Again.
Minutes later, twenty-five-year old Joel Knight strolled toward the American hospitality tent, still wearing his leather flight cap, his goggles jauntily shoved on top, his brown leather jacket unzipped, but not all the way.
What a perfect assignment, he thought happily; Curtiss provides the airplanes and all the support, hoping to sell the aircraft to overseas customers. The Army provides me, to show them off! I get all the fun and none of the responsibilities!
The more airplanes Curtiss sold, he knew, the less each would cost the Army, so everybody would win. Secondly, it showed American technology to friend and potential foes alike. And, it put men like Joel in the unique position of being able to observe and assess foreign aircraft.
He had the barman pour him a glass of ice water, and turned, bumping into a German officer. “Excuse me, Hauptman,” Joel said, in poor classroom German.
“You are pardoned, Oberleutnant,” the man said haughtily. His eyes were a passionless thin blue, his nose sharp and aristocratic. “Let us speak English, as my English is far superior to your German.” The dialect was clearly British, but still had the harsh overtones of his native language. He clicked the heels of his impeccably polished black boots, and bowed ever so slightly. “I am Hauptman [Captain] Freiherr [Baron] Gerhard von un zu Schroeder, Luftwaffe. May I join you?”
“Of course, sir,” Joel replied, turning toward the barman, “give Hauptman Schroeder whatever he would like.”
The German drank deeply from a foaming mug of beer, and eyed Joel’s drink. “What is this you are drinking?”
“Sir, it’s ice water; very refreshing.”
“You are off duty, are you not? Why not enjoy a stein of beer or glass of wine?” Schroeder said expansively.
“Sir, I drink no alcohol.” Joel replied.
“What?” The astonished German said, “No beer? No wine?”
“No, sir, nothing.”
“Have you tasted German beer? It is wonderful! Some of the best is made by monks!” Schroeder said.
“No offense, Hauptman, I have tasted beer, and I don’t like it; I think it tastes terrible.”
“I am amazed!” Schroeder said, looking astonished; “I scarcely remember when I first tasted beer– I must have been seven or eight. Why, I’ve had beer nearly every day since then; it is part of my diet, like bread or cheese. How can anyone not like it? I’ve never heard of such a thing. So, you don’t drink it only because you don’t like it?”
“That, and because of religious conviction.” Joel said quietly
“So, Oberleutnant, what religion forbids beer?” the German looked puzzled.
It was time to cut this off, Joel decided. “I’m sure you didn’t come find me to discuss beer, Hauptman. What may I do for you?”
The man cocked his head, looking at him strangely. Joel noted the embroidered silver wings, surrounded by a garland wreath on the right breast of the German’s blue-gray uniform; he, too, was a pilot.
“I am impressed with your airplane’s performance, Oberleutnant.” Schroeder said, changing the subject. “Would you like to test your prototype Hawk against one of my prototype Messerschmitts?”
Joel’s mind leapt; to fly against the newest German plane! That’s something I just can’t pass up. Now, I’ll have to get the Major’s permission. Probably the Colonel’s, too. No doubt about it, though, the Air Corps would love to know what the new German ship is capable of.
“Hauptman Schroeder, I would love nothing more.” Joel replied, leaning toward him, his hands open. “Let me get my Major’s approval.”
Joel found the Major enjoying a German brat; after listening to Joel, he agreed that the opportunity to fly against the new Messerschmitt was too good to pass up.
“You could sand bag him, and find out what his ship can do.”
The look on Joel’s face gave aw
ay his horror at the thought of deliberately losing. Sandoval smiled; “Go ask this Schroeder when and where he wants to do this, then check with Sergeant Greene about the condition of your ship. I’ll try to clear it with the Colonel. It may have to go higher, you know,” he warned.
Joel went to the maintenance area, and found Sergeant Greene loudly berating a Private working under the engine cowling on the gleaming P-36.
“What’s wrong, Sergeant?”
“Sir, this knucklehead broke off a back row sparkplug, and we can’t get it out. There’s a special extractor tool in Belgium, but Curtiss can’t get it up here until tomorrow afternoon.”
“What about the backup ship?” They always had two aircraft available for shows like this one, in case of last minute problems.
The Sergeant grimaced. “Lieutenant Cook left for England while you were still flying, sir. Remember? He’s flying number two at London this weekend.”
Without a plane, how am I going to take on this cocky German? Joel thought.
An important part of being a “demonstration pilot” was assessing the German Luftwaffe.
What if—? Yeah, this is nuts! What if the German would lend me one of his own planes? What a crazy idea! The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced it was worth a try.
Major Sandoval confirmed that number two was already in England. As soon as his plane was repaired, it too would be flown across the Channel, as backup to number two. Sandoval agreed Joel should try to talk Schroeder into letting him fly one of the Messerschmitts, but expressed doubts.
“Not even you can convince the Germans to let you fly that ship, Knight – he’ll never let you get close to one of those birds, let alone fly one.” he predicted.
Joel returned to the hospitality tent where von Schroeder was sipping a second beer.
“Well, sir, I guess we’ll never know how badly I would have beaten you! And I was really looking forward to it. But, my ship is grounded.” He quickly outlined the maintenance problem on the P-36.
“Yah,” Schroder agreed; “it is increasingly difficult to find competent fitters.”
“Yes, it’s a real shame; I was looking forward to absolutely humiliating you, too!” He said it with a slight smile. It was a calculated risk, all but insulting the man to his face. If this guy has the ego of most pursuit pilots –