Interim

The invasion of Europe was coming--and soon. But when? When? Over Europe uncertainty hung sharp as a dangling sword.

Britain, having stopped uncensored communication by Allied and neutral diplomats (except the U.S. and Russian), now turned off other trickles of information. All travel out of the United Kingdom, except for the most trusted of persons moving on urgent Government business, was abruptly stopped. The wellsprings of espionage at Stockholm and Lisbon promptly dried up.

There were nervous, nightmarish indications of coming events. British and Axis craft met and fought savagely in the Channel. In one night battle a German destroyer was sunk, in another the Canadians' famed destroyer Athabascan went down.

From Britain came news stories and pictures of troops continuously training and maneuvering on the crowded island, of Eisenhower and his top commanders looking fit and confident as they looked over their men and machines.

How Much? How Many? Supplies and men continued to pour into the United Kingdom in a vast stream. The Germans knew it. But they no longer kept as close track as before; the seas and skies had become unhealthy for prowling U-boats and reconnaissance planes.

In Parliament and in the press, Britons argued spiritedly about education, labor, postwar planning (see p. 23), but the talk always turned back to the war and the prospect of invasion.

On the other side of Germany the Russians joyously celebrated May Day. But the Russian front lay quiet, brooding, menacing.

From day to day Europe could be certain of only one thing: the cruel, relentless hammering of the air preparation for The Day. The Continent's target cities groaned under the endless thump of bombs.

Today! Tomorrow! Yesterday! A Swiss newspaper said that the foreign press corps in Germany was betting the invasion would fall between May 6 and June 7. Other guessers picked the date with solemn certainty: May 10, fourth anniversary of the German invasion of the Low Countries. The Madrid newspaper Arriba, having conned tide tables, set the time of invasion as either 4:41 a.m. Saturday or 4:39 a.m. Sunday. Saturday and Sunday came and went. The Helsinki Sanomat announced it had "learned" that invasion was under way, with landings in several places. Neither the Germans nor the Allies seemed to know anything about it.

The Germans suddenly showed panicky signs of uncertainty over Denmark, where a wave of sabotage had broken out. From Sweden came reports (possibly Nazi-inspired) that the Wehrmacht had rushed in heavy reinforcements, seven infantry and two armored divisions, to bolster its position along the Danish Jutland peninsula.

The Nazi radio boasted nervously of the strength of the western fortifications; Nazi bigwigs were busy at the endless ceremony of inspecting them. Adolf Hitler himself was reported to be making the rounds of the forts, following in the wake of Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, anti-invasion chief.

But if the Fuehrer had truly ventured so far from his Berchtesgaden bombproof, his visit produced no comment to match the pastoral pre-invasion note sounded by Rommel. As reported by the Berlin radio, the Marshal gazed at a placid meadow dotted with spring flowers under a blue sky and exclaimed: "Wunderbar! Wunderbar! When you think that under those flowers are 80,000 mines!"

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