Soldiers and Marines Saga, page 23
My assignment was both broad and specific, just as Charlie Caine had written it, and sounded both impossible, and simple: Find the gaps in NATO, and take whatever steps are necessary to fill them, without NATO, or anyone else, except the people I select, knowing about it, or being involved in any way.
Why not let anyone at NATO know, even the Americans? Because anything NATO knows or decides or plans was known to Soviet, and East German, intelligence, almost instantly. The Warsaw Pact countries would then immediately take steps to counter it. NATO had a staff whose weakest links were very weak indeed.
One of the things that long ago jumped out at me in Speidel’s lectures was the importance that a country’s civilian transportation infrastructure played in determining the outcome of its wars, political alliances, and its economy. It set me to thinking about the importance to the Warsaw Pact of the bridges over the Danube, Elbe, and Oder rivers, particularly the rail bridges, but also the highway bridges, including those on other rivers.
Moscow, and its allies, already have a ton of troops, and armor, in the countries along the border with West Germany. But the follow-on reinforcements, and the supplies they’ll need in order to win a war against NATO, would have to come over the bridges, particularly the railroad bridges.
NATO, of course, knew all this, and had detailed plans to bomb the bridges. The Soviets, and East Germans, of course, knew all about the NATO plans. Hell, they probably know the names of the pilots, and the tail numbers of their planes.
NATO’s basic plan was to destroy the Soviet air force, and bridges, with its supposedly superior planes, while its supposedly superior tanks destroy the supposedly inferior Russian and Warsaw Pact armor, which, as everyone knows, will attack through the Fulda Pass.
The more I asked myself what a competent Warsaw Pact commander would do, the more I began to think the NATO planners were wrong, very wrong.
I saw a totally different scenario; what I would do if I were in command of the Warsaw Pact. The Russians main attack would come somewhere else, instead of through the Fulda Pass, and they would cram a mind-boggling amount of anti-aircraft weapons around every bridge. So yes, the bridges would come down, but so many NATO planes would be lost in the attacks required to destroy them that the Soviets would establish air superiority, and use it to devastate the NATO ground forces. Moscow would win.
Alternately, NATO would not attack the bridges and, instead, save its planes and use them to establish air superiority over the battlefield. Then Russia would suffer great loses on the ground, but keep sending more and more troops, and equipment, over the bridges, until the NATO ground forces were finally worn down, and collapse, despite NATO having air superiority. Moscow would win.
If I’m right, which of course is a big if, NATO must choose between either knocking out the bridges, or providing air support for its troops. Either way, NATO is likely to end up losing the war. Hmm.
******
General Talley’s Pentagon office, and power, were impressive. He had four stars now, and, unless he becomes the chairman of the joint chiefs, this would be his last tour. With my one star, and my insignificant do-nothing job, I’m a military nonentity. But he was more than warm in his welcome, and the coffee flowed freely.
He’d called me in, he said, because he wanted to know what I’ve come up with. He also wanted to know what I thought about Speidel now that, in accordance with NATO’s new command-sharing approach, he was about to rejoin the German Army as a senior general in command of all of NATO’s ground forces, including all the American ground forces in Europe. The United States would provide the overall NATO commander, and the air force commander; the UK would provide the naval commander, and Germany the ground commander.
“Speidel's smart as a whip, and steady as a rock,” I told Talley.
“I learned a lot from him. I think it’s fair to say that he has greatly influenced my thinking as to how we should proceed, if we have to fight the Soviets.”
“Speidel doesn’t think the Warsaw Pact will attack, does he?”
“I believe General Speidel thinks the Soviets are itching to take the rest of Europe, but are still too uncertain about how the war will end, and that it’s a good thing they’re uncertain because Speidel thinks we’d probably lose.
“And he’s right, Ben. Yes, General Talley and I long ago became personal friends. He’s almost become like family, sort of like the uncle I never had—and I don’t know why. Being in combat together for so long, probably. As it stands, we’d probably lose if a conventional war starts this year between the Warsaw Pact and NATO.”
“You think we’d lose? You really think so?”
“Yes Sir, I do—NATO has too many gaps in its defenses, and the communists have almost certainly penetrated Brussels, and know exactly where those gaps are. But that doesn’t mean we can’t quietly fill the gaps so that we’ll win if they ever do attack.”
Then I explained my analysis of the bridges, and told him about my plan for destroying them. General Talley liked the plan, and began making phone calls: One to schedule an appointment for the two of us tomorrow morning with the Marine Commandant; another to schedule an appointment in the afternoon with the Coast Guard Commandant.
Each of them, we agreed, would not be told of the other’s potential involvement.
I stuck around until Ben’s appointments were finished for the day. Then I rode home with him in his car for a quiet dinner with him and his wife, Angie. Angie’s a school teacher who had taught science and math at various military base high schools as she raised her kids, and followed her husband around the world during his military career.
Now the kids are grown, Ben’s at the Pentagon, and Angie’s not a happy camper—because there are no service schools for military dependents near Washington where she can get a job. And she can’t get a job teaching science and math in the local public schools because DC, and the nearby Virginia school districts, only hire science and math teachers who have taken lots and lots of how-to-teach courses—even if they can’t read or write, and never even took a science or math course in college.
******
The Marine Commandant was a burley four-star with row after row of impressive decorations. He’d obviously been around the block more than once. He immediately wanted to know if we were there to talk about Vietnam.
Vietnam had been in the news a lot lately, and there were rumors that the United States might send more advisors, and, maybe, even some combat troops to protect them. The Commandant was all for it. Time to teach the communists a lesson, and so forth, and bullshit.
I wonder what his PFCs and corporals think about his wanting to send them off to a war in Asia?
“No Commandant, I brought Brigadier Roberts with me to talk about your Marine Swimmers Program.”
The Commandant was visibly surprised.
“What about it?”
I spoke up.
“General, what we’re about to share with you is code-word classified and I’d like ask you to turn off any recording devices you might have running and assure us that you will make no written record of our conversation or share it with any other officer. The only exception, of course, being your deputy so that the leadership of the Corps can continue in the event you become a casualty.”
Well that sure got his attention.
“Wait one,” he said as he held up a hand, and pressed a button on his desk.
“Have Major Hurst do an immediate security sweep of my office.”
Then he invited us to join him for a cup of coffee while we waited.
After the sweep, and a quick trip to the nearest latrine so we could get rid of some of the coffee, I explained that we were there to ask him to quietly, very quietly, expand the training of his Marine Swimmers to include explosives, particularly their use at night, to destroy piers and bridges.
The Commandant leaned forward and studied us carefully.
Little wonder that he did, the army had just proposed a new mission for the Marine Corps.
“Isn’t that the job for the SEALs?”
“Yes Sir, It is. But there aren’t enough of them, and there never will be. If we need swimmers, we’ll need to be able to draw four or five hundred of them on short notice. Very short notice. They don’t need to be on standby or in a separate unit, just trained up and ready to be moved to Europe on very short notice from whatever stateside units they’re in at the time.”
General Talley chimed in. “This is important, Tony, it’s truly in the national interest, and the last thing in the world we need is for the Russians to even get a whiff of it.”
“What can you tell me about the operation?” the commandant asked. “I need to know more.”
Ben leaned forward and lowered his voice to convey the importance of what he was about to reveal.
“Tony, for your ears only. We’re concerned that if we deploy troops and Marines to Vietnam, the Russians will see our forces tied up in Asia, and decide to invade Europe. If they do, we want to be able to blow a number of bridges in Eastern Europe to slow their supplies, and replacements.
“The problem,” Talley explained, “is that NATO is so leaky that if we or any of our allies, trains up troops to do it, or even draws up plans to do it, the Russians will find out before the men even finish their training. They’ll have their forces at the water’s edge, waiting under the bridges. Our men will be slaughtered. This is an insurance policy that even the NATO commander won’t know about. Just the three of us, and the Secretary.”
And then Talley delivered the coup de grace.
“Defense will find the additional funds for you. Within reason, of course.”
That afternoon, we gave the same pitch to the Commandant of the Coast Guard. The next morning, the Marine Commandant and I flew to San Diego to meet with the officers running the Marine Swimmers Program.
******
There is one thing about the Marines. When they get on board for a combat program, they really get on board, and don’t fool around. We lifted off Andrews at exactly 7am, picked up hours because of the time changes, and landed at El Toro well before lunch.
El Toro’s base commander, and other Marine brass, met the plane. Courtesies were exchanged, and we proceeded forthwith to the office of the Commanding General of the Pacific Marines. He’d already been told to produce the officer in charge of the Marine Swimmers Program, and his immediate superior.
“You can sit in because they’ll be asking for assets, and you’ll need to make sure they get whatever they request,” the Commandant told the three-star commanding the Pacific Marines.
A concerned looking captain and lieutenant colonel were standing stiffly at attention as we entered the conference room.
“At ease,” snapped the Commandant, “and stop worrying. You haven’t stepped on your dicks.”
“This here is General Roberts of the army. He and his men are going to work with you on an expansion of our Swimmers Program. Any suggestions he makes are to be considered a direct order from me.”
Then he nodded to me, “General.”
“In a nutshell, gentlemen, we’d like you to permanently expand your Marine Swimmers Program, keep close track of your graduates, and periodically retest, and retrain them, to make sure they’re current. We need you at all times to be able to produce at least five hundred of your swimmers at a stateside airfield within thirty-six hours of getting the call. And, when they get there, they must be ready to immediately fly to wherever they are needed, swim with their own wetsuits, and blow things up with explosives that will be provided at their destination.
“It’s a black program,” I told them, “and highly classified. You can’t discuss it with anyone, not even your wives. Anybody asks, you say it’s just another way to keep your Marines busy and get a few extra bucks into their pockets.
“What we need are enlisted men, and junior officers, who can blow up really big things like docks, wharfs, jetties, bridges, and dry docks; the stuff that needs to be destroyed to degrade an enemy’s port capacity or prepare for a landing. That means they’ll need to know how to swim long distances underwater in scuba gear, and use big explosives. We’ll provide the explosives for any actual operations.
“Basically,” I said, “your swimmers will need to be able to jump out of a hovering helicopter, swim underwater for five or ten miles, and place explosives with timers so they can get away. Oh, and they’ll absolutely have to be able to do it at night when everything is pitch black, and they may have to fight as they come out of the water in order to get to the piers, and dry docks, that are their targets.
“What all this means, if I understand what you’re doing now, is that you’ll have to quietly expand your program qualifications to include night and water entrance training using helicopters, demolition training involving setting explosives by touch in the dark, and underwater swimming in the dark with wet suits and scuba gear.”
The two officers nodded their heads, obviously happy to hear they weren’t going to lose them.
“The key thing to remember if anyone asks, is that this is no big deal and the army is in no way involved, only the Marines; it’s just a way to keep your men busy between wars and let them earn a few qualifications that might help get them promoted.
“One last thing, and it’s important, very important. No special units are to be formed to keep the men trained up or keep track of them. We can’t risk it. Someone might hear about them and draw the right conclusions. Then your Marines would be met at their targets, and slaughtered.
“So once your swimmers graduate, it’s just periodic short courses and retesting so they can keep their swimmer certification, and the extra pay that comes with it. The graduates are to continue to go on to other assignments, just as they now do. But now you’ll have to keep very close track of their locations so you can keep them trained up, and get enough of them to a stateside Marine airfield within thirty-six hours of getting a call.”
There were some questions about such things as using inflatable boats — “probably not, but I’ll let you know.” Then we all had lunch at the officers’ club and everyone, except me, talked about the possibility of the Corps deploying units to Vietnam. I kept my mouth shut.
On the flight back the Commandant asked, “General, I recognize your decorations and I’m impressed. But the red one?”
“French, Sir. I was at Dien Ben Phu with the Legion when the French went down.”
He almost choked on the Coke he was drinking.
“I’m sorry Sir, I really don’t know much about Vietnam. I spent most of my time trying to keep my ass from getting shot off. I can tell you one thing though, they’re tough little bastards, really tough, and they don’t like foreigners occupying their country and telling them what to do. If you have to fight them, you’d do well not to underestimate them.”
Chapter Five
On the flight back to Rhein-Main, I spent a lot of time thinking about the operation Talley had approved, a small cover unit, with a few key personnel, on an obscure base somewhere in the North of France. Its purpose would be to secretly prepare to supplement NATO’s war-fighting ability in the event of war.
That’s how I became the proud commander of the newly formed 132nd Surplus Equipment Disposal Detachment. It was grandly located in the abandoned warehouses and offices Talley’s staff somehow found for us on the edge of an abandoned French army base once used for the training of infantry reservists.
It’s dilapidated and filthy; we’ll have to clean it up, and, most definitely, upgrade the plumbing.
The location of the base was actually quite nice. It was near the small city of Riems north of Paris, about a two hour drive from my apartment, the embassy, and Orly Field. The location was very picturesque. But one time-consuming early morning drive was enough to convince me that I had to get someplace closer to live if I was going to be there permanently.
******
Gunnery Sergeant Owens, the commander of the embassy’s Marine guards, was quite pleased when I asked him to temporarily loan me four of his Marines, and a corporal, “until I can organize a security force for my new post.” He assured me they’d guard the place, and answer the phone, so long as I thought necessary.
Gunny Owens brought the Marines to me the next day in an embassy van complete with cots, bedrolls, and a couple of boxes of field rations. They were all wearing civvies at my request, and keeping their weapons, and ammo, out of sight. We didn’t want anyone to know there was something worth guarding.
Gunny Owens set up a watch roster; his parting words of wisdom to his men were in the best tradition of the corps.
“No drinking, no broads, and no visits to the village, or I’ll have your asses. And this shithouse better be spotless the next time I’m here.”
******
Obviously, the first thing I needed to do was find some people who could appear to be like me, putting in time until they reached retirement. Since the peacetime military doesn’t particularly value non-bureaucrats it meant I would be able to choose from a lot of very good people.
At least one of them needed to be qualified to instantly step in and take over if something happened to me. And I had in mind just the kind of man I wanted. There was no promotion path beyond colonel for anyone in the Special Forces. So a current, or recently retired, colonel commanding the Tenth Special Forces Group at Bad Tolz would be ideal. He’d know Europe and special operators.
After some discrete inquiries through the army brigadier who had replaced Dennis as the embassy attaché, it appeared the current, and soon-to-retire, colonel commanding the Tenth Group at Bad Tolz, might be perfect. So off I went in my Peugeot. I didn’t want to draw attention, so I wore civvies, and called ahead to request a meeting with him to discuss some personnel paperwork related to his coming retirement.
What I forgot was that my Peugeot had a general officer’s sticker on the bumper. The two MPs at the gate took one look, and nearly had heart attacks. By the time I showed them my ID card, which also had my rank, officers began showing up, and frantic calls were being made in the background. So much for a low key arrival.
