DENYING REALITY

 

Major Richard Blaine fights an uphill battle trying to convince smug generals they are mistaken in ways that will cost thousands of lives.

DENYING REALITY

“How often it is that the angry man rages denial of what his inner self is already telling him.”

– Mark Twain

 

Looking at the flustered faces of the high-ranking officers in the bench seats in front of me, I thought, not for the first time, that Military Command was the art and science of running the circus from the monkey cage.

The Army held a pathetic belief in the collective wisdom of individual ignorance. That belief would kill thousands in three weeks’ time.

The tragedy was that these inept strategists felt themselves to be at the very apex of brilliance and humanitarianism.

But I knew that the urge to save humanity was almost always a false front for the urge to rule.

Consider the modern Brutus, General Eisenhower. He had everyone fooled by his “earnest” pose. Might have even fooled me but for Sentient “reading” the diary of his thoughts.

Behind me, General Patton snapped, “Well, you going to hurl us pell-mell onto Omaha Beach or what?”

I turned to him. “I’m going to try to reason with you all so that Sentient does not do that.”

I turned slowly round and round to talk to all the generals.

“The Germans know that their best chance to stop this Allied Invasion is Omaha Beach – which you have to take otherwise the gap between Utah and the British beaches will be too great.”

I shook my head. “No tactician could have devised a better defensive situation. A narrow, enclosed battlefield, with no possibility of outflanking it.”

I sighed, “Many natural obstacles for the attacker to overcome; an ideal place to build fixed fortifications and a trench system on the slope of the bluff and on the high ground looking down on a wide, open killing field for any infantry trying to cross no-man’s-land.”

Bradley grunted, “We’ve considered all that, Major.”

I nodded my head. “Yes. Four misconceptions gave you the notion that you could successfully assault this all-but-impregnable position.”

I held up the first throbbing finger. “Allied intelligence said that the fortifications and trenches were manned by the 716th Infantry Division, a low-quality unit made up of Poles and Russians with poor morale.”

I barked a bitter laugh.  “At Omaha, intelligence reckoned that there was only one battalion of about 800 troops to man the defenses.”

I held up the second aching finger. “The B-17s assigned to the air bombardment will hit the beach with everything they have, destroying or at least neutralizing the bunkers and creating craters on the beach and bluff that would be usable as foxholes for the infantry.

Up went my third artificial finger.

“The naval bombardment, culminating with the LCTs’ rockets, will finish off anything left alive and moving after the B-17s finish. The infantry from the 29th and 1st divisions going into Omaha are being told that their problems would begin when they got to the top of the bluff and started to move inland toward their D-Day objectives.”

A fourth finger joined its throbbing brothers. “40,000 men with 3,500 motorized vehicles are scheduled to land at Omaha on D-Day.”

I hung my head and almost sobbed. “None of that will prove to be true.”

I raised my head and met their eyes. “The intelligence was wrong; instead of the contemptible 716th Division, the quite capable 352nd Division will be in its place.”

I rubbed my face with throbbing fingers.” Instead of one German battalion to cover the beach, there will be three.”

 I saw hardened denying eyes.

“The cloud cover and late arrival will cause the B-17s to delay their release until they will be as much as five kilometers inland; not a single bomb will fall on the beach or bluff. The naval bombardment will be too brief and generally inaccurate, and in any case, it will concentrate on the big fortifications above the bluff.”

Their rock faces told me they refused to believe me. “Finally, most of the rockets will fall short, most of them landing in the surf, killing thousands of fish but no Germans.”

General Bradley’s bullet eyes met mine. “We have hard intelligence while you have this fanciful Sentient of yours. Regardless of what you say, Major, we’re going.”

Above us, Sentient’s voice laughed, “YES, TRIBAL CHIEFTAN, YOU ARE ALL GOING!”