Red Inferno: 1945 (11 page)

“Sir,” Marshall finally said, “like everyone else gathered here, I have no idea which way the Russians will jump. It is indeed possible that the apparent victory over Germany will result in everything they wish, but I somehow doubt it. As Mr. Stettinius reported on Acheson’s meeting this morning with Gromyko, I think they will hang on to our boys in Potsdam as well as those in their prison camps and try to wring concessions out of us. Worst possible alternative is that they will launch an all-out attack across the Elbe that will result in a full-scale war.”

“If the Reds do come, is Ike prepared for it?” Truman asked.

“As much as anyone can be with so little time to actually do anything. However, if the Russians do attack, I am confident the results will not be as one-sided as the attack on Miller Force.”

Truman shook his head. “Gromyko has told us what they want in return for our boys. It is totally unacceptable, practically absurd. Berlin cannot be handed to them entirely. That would leave us very little control of Germany, and then only at the sufferance of Russia. Acheson thinks there’s a small possibility Gromyko’s comments might have been a starting point for real talks, but I am not so certain.”

The president stood and looked out the window behind his desk. “War with Russia?” he said, thinking aloud. “God help us.”

CHAPTER 9

S
talin seated himself. The building in which they were meeting was in the devastated German city of Kustrin and had been badly damaged. Light streamed through the shattered roof and dust was everywhere. He ignored it.

“Proceed,” directed Stalin.

Zhukov took a pointer and walked to the map. “We have developed a plan for the defeat of the Allies that will be both decisive and as swift as we can possibly make it. As a result, there will be very little subtlety in our attack. We will hit them, bleed them, and push them back. We have titled the plan ‘Red Inferno.’ “

“Good,” said Stalin.

“Nor, as you have wished, will there be any delay. Our forces are simply gathering their breath and not doing anything major in the way of resupply and reinforcing. Because of that, we are confident the attack will be totally unexpected.”

Stalin again agreed, and Zhukov felt his confidence growing.

“Comrade Stalin, our strategy is very simple. The main thrust will be against General Bradley’s army group. It will be attacked with overwhelming force and driven back to the Rhine. Koniev’s army will protect our southern flank and Rokossovsky’s will protect the north. Both those armies and others will be stripped to support the main attack, which will be led by General Chuikov and myself. Even reduced, however, Rokossovsky and Koniev will still be able to apply pressure against the American and British units confronting them.”

Zhukov pointed to a city on the map. “Even as we drive to the Rhine, we must plan to go on. Antwerp is the key. Militarily, Hitler was right when he started that assault in the Ardennes last December, the one the Americans refer to as the Battle of the Bulge. Take Antwerp, and the American advantage in supplies and ammunition will cease to exist. Take Antwerp from them, and the channel ports and Marseilles in the south will not be able to supply their armies in the manner they need to fight. Comrade Stalin, we take Antwerp and the Allies are through.”

Stalin’s eyes glowed with fervor as he thought of the possibilities success would bring. “What will the Allies be doing to stop us while we are driving on Antwerp?” he asked.

“Comrade Stalin, they will try to reinforce their armies from Italy, but we will choke that off by air attacks. Even if they do succeed to a point, Koniev will seal them off and prevent them from being a factor in the thrust toward Antwerp. They will also seek to prevent us from maintaining a steady stream of supplies through their own air power, which is much greater then that of the Nazis. The one who wins the supply war will win the shooting war.”

“What about Potsdam, Comrade Zhukov?”

Zhukov shrugged. “As I stated the last time we met, the Americans inside are of no consequence and can stay there and rot. I have General Bazarian and a reinforced corps of second-echelon soldiers keeping tabs on them, and he is free to do as he wishes so long as it does not interfere with our main purpose. His primary orders are to ensure that Miller Force does not get loose in our rear, or try to cut the autobahn, which we will be using for supplies.”

“How long will this campaign, this Red Inferno, take, Comrade Zhukov?”

Zhukov was reluctant to make a prediction. There were too many variables. However, he knew that an impatient Stalin wanted a schedule.

“Three to six months, comrade. In six months at the latest, we will be on the Rhine and in Antwerp. At that point we can either dictate peace or keep going into France.” Zhukov chuckled. “I have never seen Paris,” he joked.

Stalin too smiled at the thought. He would have preferred that Zhukov had predicted a quicker victory. So much could occur in six months. Yet he knew his armies were tired and that the Americans would likely fight bitterly to prevent being expelled.

“When will it begin?”

“Tonight, Comrade Stalin,” said Zhukov, enjoying the look of pleased surprise on the other man’s face.

T
HE LARGE, DRAB
tent suited the mood of the men all too well. The flap opened and Major General Francis “Freddie” de Guingand entered, smiling affably at the handful of confreres at SHAEF’s field headquarters near Reims, France. De Guingand was liked and respected by the Americans. His boss, Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery, was not.

“Where the hell is Monty?” snapped Beetle Smith.

“He could not make it,” sighed de Guingand. “The suddenness of the meeting conflicted with other plans. I believe he is in London, meeting with Sir Alan Brooke. Therefore, you have the honor and high pleasure of dealing with me.”

“Bullshit.” Beetle Smith chuckled. “But probably just as well. At least you understand English.”

“Freddie,” injected Ike, “we are trying to decide just what the Russians are up to. This afternoon we received a piece of information that could be of enormous significance.”

Bradley interrupted. Ike did not mind. “Aerial reconnaissance photos. The pilot died getting them.”

“Which,” Smith added, “does not necessarily mean the objects he photographed are going to be used as he thought. He may have died a hero, but he still could be wrong.”

De Guingand reached for the small pile of glossies and perused them. “My, my. It does look like bridging equipment and small boats. Where on earth were these things when the pictures were taken?”

“Only a couple of miles east of the Elbe and in the middle of a huge tank park,” Bradley answered. “These were the only things that were camouflaged. Everything else—tanks, guns, trucks, men—was all in plain sight, but the bridging equipment and the boats were hidden. The pilot of the scout plane saw them and was shot down for his pains. He died after making a crash landing on our side of the Elbe.”

“So,” said Freddie, helping himself to a sandwich, “the question becomes, Why did the Russians bring the equipment to the Elbe. Was it a mistake? Just the normal baggage of an army on the move? Or”—he paused, unintentionally dramatic—“are they intending to cross? And another thought. If there is one place where they are hidden, mightn’t there be a number of others?”

“Exactly,” said Bradley. “We think they are going to try and pull another sneak attack, just like what they did to Miller, only this time much, much bigger. We have other recon planes out trying to confirm this. It would mean an all-out war, and not just the mess at Potsdam.” His normally gloomy face was more downcast than usual.

De Guingand said solemnly, “That equipment is intended to be used.”

Ike stood and paced nervously. “I agree too. Freddie, ever since the incident with Miller, we’ve been making contingency plans that would cover just such an eventuality as a full war with Russia. We have to let them fire the first shot, but then we must be united, and that means you must convince Montgomery to cooperate fully and without question.” A thought struck him. “Good God, what do we do about the Germans? Do we continue to fight them as well?”

No one had an answer.

S
ECOND
L
IEUTENANT
B
ILLY
Tolliver desperately wished that he was back at home in the sleepy backwater town of Opelika, Alabama, instead of hiding by the Elbe River, above the German town of Magdeburg. It was night and he was on the east-facing front of a low hill, scarcely a mound, that gave him a decent view of the river, which was only about a half mile away. It was not a pleasant sight. The entire world about him was going up in flame and fury as hundreds of big Russian guns pounded the area behind him with their shells.

If it hadn’t been for the fact that two of the three men he’d brought with him were now dead, he would have found humor in that all the Russians were doing with their barrage was to churn up the dirt and make it easier for the German farmers to plant their crops. He and the annoying PFC Holmes were likely the only Americans alive in the area, and Holmes’s radio was their only direct link to the outside world. Holmes was annoying because he thought he knew everything and spoke with a nasal New England accent.

Holmes had burrowed himself deep in a foxhole as Tolliver watched while the Russians completed the bridging of the Elbe with methodical and ominous efficiency. Soon the first bridge would be complete and the second, only a few yards downstream, would follow in a matter of minutes. Both spans were swarming with people connecting pontoons and bridge segments. In the moonlight, he could also see what appeared to be a long line of T34 tanks waiting patiently for the bridges to be done so they could rumble across.

Without fanfare and almost without Tolliver realizing it, the first bridge was finished. Then the second. “Holmes, tell them people back at battalion that tanks are starting to cross.”

He thought about telling them that he was going to leave in about thirty seconds, but decided not to mention it. He was afraid he might be ordered to stay and fight to the last man, which he did not think was a good idea.

An explosion shook both bridges as a bomb landed between them, causing a geyser of water to lift high in the air. “What the hell,” Tolliver yelled gleefully. Then he saw the faint shadow of a passing plane in the dark sky. He briefly caught a faint silhouette and thought it was a P-47 Thunderbolt.

An excited Holmes appeared beside him. “Holy shit, sir, we’re hitting back.” Russian antiaircraft tracer fire punctuated the statement. It didn’t appear that they were shooting at anything in particular. Nor were they hitting anything.

“Yeah,” said Tolliver. “Hey, don’t those things usually fly around in pairs?”

As Tolliver made the comment, the second Thunderbolt roared low overhead and dropped its bomb load. This time, it was close enough for the blast to separate the upstream bridge from its mooring. While they watched, fascinated, the bridge swung until it collided with its downstream brother. The jolt separated more sections and dumped a couple of tanks, along with about a score of men, into the water, where they disappeared.

Both men whooped as the planes returned again to strafe the Russian side of the river. Then they became aware of a new sound in the air—Russian planes had belatedly arrived to protect the vulnerable crossing site. In horror, they watched as one of the P-47s lost a wing and cartwheeled into the ground while the other flew away, its bombs and bullets expended.

“Holmes,” said Tolliver, “this has just gotten bigger than all of us. You think you can find where you hid that jeep yesterday?”

“Not a doubt in my military mind, sir.”

“Good,” said Tolliver. “We’ve seen more than enough Russian firepower. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

N
EWS OF THE
Russian crossing of the Elbe sent everyone in the Potsdam perimeter to their battle stations in the middle of the night. Discipline was good, and only a few shots were fired at shadows and stray animals. When the dawn came, so too did relief. There was no sign of the Russian army. Patrols and listening posts reported that nearby Red tanks had not moved. This was quickly confirmed by scout planes that braved the battles going on around the Elbe to provide Potsdam with the needed information regarding nearby Soviet locations.

Thus, by midmorning life in Potsdam had returned to a semblance of normality. The soldiers were told to stand down and get some rest, and food was prepared. For Jack Logan, it meant that he could finally visit the hospital where Lieutenant Singer was convalescing.

On arrival, Logan was appalled by the number of wounded in the makeshift hospital in the palace of Sanssouci, once used by the Kaiser. He really hadn’t known what to expect and he thought he had been steeled for the worst. But he had not been prepared for the sight of hundreds of men lying in rows of beds amid remnants of baroque splendor. Many of the wounded were heavily bandaged, and many were also moaning and crying in pain. It was the sounds of pain that got him, along with the smell of antiseptic and the primal scent of fear. The sounds were a low chorus of agony while medics and doctors moved among them. It was hard to believe that the battle that had caused the majority of the wounds had been days ago.

With good directions from a harried medic, he found Singer. The once plump lieutenant was a sallow-cheeked parody of himself. Logan tried not to stare at the heavily bandaged shoulder and short stump, which was all that remained of Singer’s left arm.

With some effort, Singer greeted him. “Good to see you, Jack, and congratulations. You’ll make a great officer. Even better than me.”

Logan smiled. “I see news travels fast around here.”

“Captain Dimitri came by and told me yesterday. Besides,” he chided, “your stripes have been removed from your sleeve and, unless I’ve gone blind as well, that’s a dark bar on your helmet.”

“Well, thanks again. Now how the hell are you doing, Lieutenant?”

“My name’s David. You can call me that since we are all brother officers and allegedly gentlemen. I’d like that, Jack.”

“I would too,” said Logan and found he meant it. “Now, how the hell are you, David?”

Singer fought back a tear but gave in to a grimace from the pain. “About as well as a one-armed Jewish lieutenant could be. It hurts, Jack, and not just the physical part. They give me morphine and other stuff so that I can deal with that. It hurts inside me, inside my mind. I don’t want to be a cripple, someone kids stare at on the street. I don’t want Marsha to be married to a cripple, either. And don’t give me that bullshit about what great artificial arms they make nowadays or I’ll get one and give you the finger with it.”

Logan agreed that bullshit wouldn’t do. Instead, he said sadly, “Dave, when this is over there are going to be a lot of people without arms and legs in America. You won’t stand out from the crowd that much at all. Can you walk yet?”

“No, but the medics think I should try real soon.”

“Well, when you can, David,” he said with more firmness than he intended, “why don’t you walk your ass down these aisles and see people who really are crippled. Yeah, you’ve been hurt, but you can still see, hear, talk, walk, and even pick things up with your remaining hand. Like your own food, for instance. And I’ll bet you can even get a hard-on if you worked at it.”