Red Inferno: 1945 (12 page)

Singer was silent for a moment. “Are you telling me I’m feeling sorry for myself?”

“Not really. You’ve gotten a really shitty wound, and there’s no kidding about it. But it could have been worse, lots worse.” Maybe, Logan thought, the worse one would be his own. After all this time, he’d barely been scratched.

Singer sighed and seemed to relax slightly. “You’re right, I guess. I can hear people crying and moaning all day, and sometimes I do it too.”

“Were you gonna make the army a career?”

“Hell, no. I’m not that stupid.”

“Aw shit, Dave, don’t tell me you were gonna be a surgeon.”

Singer managed a grin. “A paperhanger, and fuck you too, Lieutenant Logan. Actually, I’m going to be an accountant, and I guess I can juggle books with one hand. And that reminds me, along with everything else I got that still works, there’s one little thing that Marsha was very, very fond of, and you’re right, it checked in this morning, loud and clear.”

Logan rolled his eyes. There was a picture of plump, blond, and pretty Marsha Singer on his bedstand. “Can’t imagine what that might be. And don’t you Jewish types have most of it cut off at an early age?”

Singer laughed. “That’s because there’s so much that, if we didn’t, you Gentiles would feel deprived. Now, what’s this crap going around about the Russians?”

“They did it again, David. The bastards have crossed the Elbe and are taking on Bradley’s army. Happened last night. That’s why I can stay only a little while. Everyone’s tensed up about the possibility of the Reds attacking here.”

“Gawd,” said Singer. “What a mess. I hate to be greedy, but you’re telling me it could be a long time before anyone’s evacuated from here, either.”

“Looks that way.”

They talked for a few more minutes until Singer said he was tired and wanted to sleep. Logan left, after promising to return when he could. It was a promise he intended to keep.

The way from the hospital back to the platoon went by the old barracks and other buildings and bunkers used as General Miller’s headquarters.

As he passed, a slight, dark-haired girl emerged from a doorway. Instinctively, he nodded and said, “Good morning.”

“It is indeed,” she said softly. “I just hope it stays that way.”

“You speak English,” he blurted, realizing immediately that it was one of the truly dumb comments he’d ever made.

The girl smiled at his gaffe, and he realized she was the girl he’d noticed before and that she was indeed older than he’d first thought, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties. She was also fairly short, which somewhat accounted for his originally thinking she was a child, only a couple of inches over five feet. She was thin, and dressed in very poorly fitting man’s pants, shirt, and jacket. She did, however, have large, expressive eyes, and had bestowed a wide smile on him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m usually not that foolish in the face of the obvious.”

“Goodness, Lieutenant, I would hope not.” She softened the rebuke with her smile. “Before you ask, I learned to speak English in Canada, where my father was a member of the German diplomatic corps, and now that skill is being put to use by my translating for refugees and German prisoners. My mother was Canadian and I have dual citizenship, for whatever that is worth in this terrible war. Now that you Americans are fighting the Russians, there is a belief that we may soon be on the same side.”

Logan thought that one over. Allied with the krauts? Incredible. He realized that they had been walking alongside each other and that he wanted to see her again. “My name is Jack Logan.”

“Elisabeth Wolf,” she responded.

He didn’t see a wedding ring and she hadn’t said frau or fraulein. “I hate to ask, but are you alone here?”

“I have my nephew, Pauli. He is six, and to the best of my knowledge we are all that is left of the German side of my family. We still have a number of relatives in Canada, near Toronto.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It must be rough for you.”

Elisabeth’s eyes clouded. “We lived very near Berlin, where it was a good deal more than rough, and someday you may find out about it. It’s amazing that we are, for the moment, in an oasis of relative peace. Something tells me it won’t last, particularly since the Russians have once again attacked your soldiers, but we must enjoy each moment of tranquillity that we are given. But I thank you for your sorrow about my family. Many Americans aren’t yet ready to accept the fact that we Germans have suffered enormous pain as well from a war that many of us never wanted. Tell me, Lieutenant Logan, have you lost friends and loved ones in this terrible war?”

He mulled that one over. “Friends, yes, but not loved ones. Someone said love is not for the military.”

He often wondered about that. Sometimes the pain he had felt on the death of a fellow soldier had been so bad and so wrenching that he and others had blocked out forming relationships with new people. This was horribly unfair to the replacements who were alone and terrified, and this attitude only reinforced their fears. He had intentionally, but incorrectly, trivialized what combat was like in that long-ago discussion with Singer.

“This is where I get off.” She grinned, and he realized that they had walked to the refugee encampment. He had also walked about a half mile out of his way.

“How often do you translate for the almighty generals?”

“I’m on call. They contact me when they have something. Otherwise I am here, helping out as best I can. Why?”

“Perhaps I could stop by. We could talk again. I could bring some food, perhaps.”

She frowned. “Please do not misunderstand me, Lieutenant, but I am not certain that bringing food is a good idea. Some of the women are trading their bodies for food and cigarettes, and that I will not do. If that is what you have in mind, do not even think of coming back to see me.”

“No. Not at all,” he stammered truthfully. While he knew of guys who were ignoring the rules and taking advantage of German women who were sometimes very willing to make the trade, it genuinely hadn’t occurred to him that she might be that type. He was shocked at his unintended implication. “I was only thinking of food to help out.”

He dared not say she really looked like she could do with a couple of good meals.

“If you bring food for me, I will not accept it. Because I help out with your officers, I do get some additional rations. A little while ago I was quite hungry and sick, but that is no longer the case.”

“Consider the food forgotten.”

“On the other hand,” Elisabeth smiled gently, “my nephew is only six and he is very sad.”

“Does he speak English too?”

“Yes, fairly well.”

“Gotcha,” said Logan. He turned and walked away briskly while Elisabeth smiled at his large, retreating back. Americans, she thought, were so very much like large toys.

Pauli saw her and got up from where he was sitting. He walked over and hugged her tightly. Every time she had to leave him he was afraid she wouldn’t come back. Could she blame him, with all that he had endured? She hugged him tightly in return and drew comfort from the presence of his small body. Pauli was all she had as well.

CHAPTER 10

T
he rumbling sound of the diesel engines of a score of Russian tanks made attempts at normal conversation a difficult task. Sergei Suslov wondered precisely where in Germany he and his men were and what was happening to the rest of the world. All he was certain of was that he was a couple of miles west of the Elbe, and that they were fighting the Yanks instead of the Nazis.

The crossing of the Elbe had been uneventful for him, although he had seen a handful of burned-out T34 hulks and the remains of a shattered pontoon bridge that told him earlier crossings had not been as peaceful as his had been.

The ground he was driving on was fairly level and he could see the silhouette of a number of buildings and a church steeple ahead. Word had earlier come down that there were Americans in the village. This had resulted in a nighttime attack that had been a disaster.

The battalion had gone forward in improper order with the infantry well behind the tanks instead of alongside for mutual protection. When the lead tanks had gotten to the buildings, they were assailed by antitank weapons, machine-gun fire, and bazookas. American bazookas, he’d been told, would not penetrate the armor of a T34. But that referred to the front armor, and the damned Yanks had waited until the tanks passed by and fired into their more vulnerable rear. In the confusion, a half-dozen T34s had been destroyed and a hundred belatedly arriving infantry were killed or wounded before the order to withdraw had been given.

Now they were going to go into the damned village the way they should have. Artillery had pounded it and Stormovik fighter-bombers had sought out targets, although rumor had it there were no American tanks in the village for the Soviet planes, whose specialty was killing enemy armor. Even more important to Suslov’s personal safety, Russian soldiers were trotting alongside his tank. No more would American infantry get behind him.

“Any targets?” yelled his gunner, Pavel Martynov. The previous night’s slaughter had shaken him. It had shaken all of them. Now they knew the Yanks would fight and fight well.

“I’ll let you know, comrade gunner, when you can shoot your big gun.” Suslov spoke gently, almost teasingly. He didn’t want the boy panicking.

“Fuck this shit,” snapped Ivan Latsis as he maneuvered the iron monster around an obstruction, grazing a brick wall and causing a metallic screech as the tank bulled along. “I want to kill the fucking Germans, not the fucking Americans.”

Everybody has an opinion, thought Suslov, just as they have an asshole. Only the loader was silent. Sasha Popov rarely spoke. He was half Asian and seemed to resent being with Russians. Or maybe he was NKVD? There were a number of them in all units to spy on the troops and ensure loyalty. Who the hell knew nowadays?

Of course Suslov wondered why they were fighting the Americans today when yesterday’s sworn enemy was the Germans and the Americans were their allies. It was a question he kept to himself, as one never doubted the orders from on high. The speech from the political officer, which said that the Americans had betrayed some damned agreement and had sworn to overthrow the People’s Revolution, seemed to ring just a little hollow. How could yesterday’s ally be today’s enemy? However, one does not argue with a commissar.

The tank rocked over a ruined wall and lurched into a debris-filled street. Suslov had closed the hatch, and he squinted through the tiny slit that gave him an inadequate view of the world. He couldn’t see very much, but it was safer that way. A tank commander had been shot through the eye by an American sniper last night while looking brave at the top of his tank. The hell with bravery, Suslov thought.

His radio crackled, ordering him to halt. He waited, and the word came that the infantry had completed their sweep through the village and it was abandoned. Suslov considered himself fortunate to have a radio. So many of the Russian tanks didn’t. He had heard that all the American tanks did, but he found that hard to believe. He had also been told that American tanks were more comfortable and thought that ludicrous. Whoever heard of a comfortable tank?

Suslov opened his hatch and stuck his head and shoulders out. The fresh air was a delightful alternative to the diesel-and-sweat stench-filled air of the tank. Latsis had stuck his head out as well.

“Hey, Sergei,” yelled Latsis. “Look at that.”

Suslov followed where Latsis was pointing. He saw a couple of dead bodies and realized that the bloody lumps were Americans. He had never seen Americans close up before and wanted to get out and take a look at them. Of course, he wouldn’t dare.

A nearby explosion shook the tank. “Where the hell did that come from!” he screamed and prepared to duck down into the relative safety of the tank.

“Planes,” yelled Latsis.

Suslov gazed skyward. While they had been fighting their personal battle on the ground, another one had been going on high in the skies above them. In amazement, he watched the swirl of planes dancing and darting among one another, the contrails painting delicate white lines in the sky. He saw a plane get hit and blow up, while another seemed to lose interest in life and started to dive toward the ground. Perhaps that was the explosion he’d felt—a crashing plane.

Still another explosion shook him even harder and almost knocked him down into the turret. As he closed the hatch, he felt stones clattering onto his vehicle. This was followed by more pulsating explosions, and he knew they could not all be crashing planes. The Yank planes had broken through and were bombing his position.

“What do we do now?” asked Martynov. He was almost in tears. The Red Army, Martynov knew, never had much to fear from the Luftwaffe. The German air force had been pretty much wiped out as an effective weapon by the time Martynov had been given a tank to drive. Suslov, however, did remember the early days of the war when the German planes wreaked havoc on the Russian tank formations.

Now they had a new enemy, one with its own powerful air arm, and the Russian tanks were once again vulnerable from the air.

What the devil should we do? Suslov thought. If we stay in the village we’ll get bombed. If we retreat without authorization, we’ll be back in the open field and be even better targets. And, oh yes, the fucking commissar would scream at them for being cowards and possibly have them shot or, at best, sent to a penal battalion where death was just as certain. He decided to advance.

Before they could move, another bomb exploded close by and caused the tank to rock violently. Latsis cried out in pain as his body bounced off the inside hull of the tank. Suslov had hit his head, and he touched his forehead. There was a little blood, but it was not much of a wound and not his first. He ruefully thought it would not be his last.

Finally, word came. They would retreat, not advance. Perhaps they could make bombing difficult for the Americans if they were on the move. Suslov also realized they were giving up the shitty little village that had cost them so much already.

Shortly after he managed to pull his tank out, the bombing ceased. Either the Americans had been chased off or they had run out of bombs. While Martynov praised the Soviet fighter planes for saving them, Suslov quietly thought it was likely a lack of bombs and bullets that had caused the Americans to depart.

He opened his hatch and climbed out to the top of his turret. Without appearing obvious, he counted the remaining T34s in the battalion. Fourteen. Yesterday there had been twenty-six. Maybe a couple were only stuck in the village or had minor damage that could be repaired fairly quickly, but certainly not all of them. They had lost six in that nightmare last night and six more from the bombings. He watched as a wounded man was helped out of the tank next to him and realized that even some of those tanks that had survived had men who’d been hurt.

And what if this was happening elsewhere? The Yanks had used cunning and skill in their mauling of his battalion. It had been like that in the early days against the Germans before they ran out of people and weapons and had to draft old men and young boys. Now it looked like the Red Army would have to do it all over again to the Americans and defeat another powerful new enemy.

Suslov looked at Martynov, who had finally stopped his sobbing, and began to wonder. Was Russia up to it? Was he up to it? After Stalingrad, how many lives did he have left?

•    •    •

T
HE ATMOSPHERE FOR
the meeting in the Executive Wing conference room was even more tense than usual. President Harry Truman did nothing to alleviate it when he strode in, grim-faced and angry.

“All right, people, let’s begin,” he ordered.

Attorney General Biddle had asked to speak first. “Sir, Director Hoover wishes to know, in light of the Russian attack, whether the FBI should commence interning Russian nationals and nationalized citizens who emigrated from Russia, along with known Communist sympathizers?”

Steven Burke, sitting against the wall behind Marshall, was stunned. Biddle was talking about people like Natalie Holt.

Truman was puzzled. “I can see picking up Russian nationals, but why bother American citizens who came from there? We didn’t do that to naturalized Germans, did we? And are we really that concerned about some idiot left-wingers?”

“Sir,” Biddle persisted stiffly, “the director is very concerned about the number of Russians working in the State Department who, while they are American citizens, could be sympathetic to the current regime and possibly even agents for the Soviet government.”

Assistant Secretary of State Acheson responded. “Mr. Biddle, while I will gladly acknowledge the presence in State of persons born in what is now the Soviet Union, I will also say that their loyalty to us is without question. One only has to look at the circumstances under which they fled Russia and how they arrived here to know the depths of their hatred for the current government in Moscow. These people were deprived of property, livelihood, dignity, and the lives of many of their loved ones. I would also add, from personal knowledge, that many so-called Russian nationals who are not yet citizens are fugitives from the Bolsheviks who have never asked for American citizenship because they hope and pray daily for the overthrow of Stalin’s government. When that happens they will return to their homeland. I would tread lightly with them as well.”

Burke smiled to himself. Natalie had told him of their meeting with Gromyko, and Acheson was at least in part referring to her.

Truman turned to Biddle. “I agree. Tell Mr. Hoover that he can and should investigate as he sees appropriate. But I do not want anyone jailed or deprived of liberties without due process and without proof that they are acting on behalf of the Soviet government. Mere opinions, beliefs, and personal stupidity will not suffice. I trust that will be satisfactory.”

Biddle nodded reluctantly.

“Good,” said Truman, glad to have that matter disposed of, at least for a while.

In Truman’s unspoken opinion, Hoover was a stubborn prick and would come back to it first chance he got. “Now, what did Mr. Gromyko tell you this morning, Mr. Acheson?”

Acheson grimaced. “For those who are not aware, I once again met with Ambassador Gromyko to protest the Russian advance across the Elbe. Gromyko blandly handed me a line of pap that said the Russians were acting totally defensively and in reaction to our attack on their forces in Berlin. He said their troops are merely defending themselves.”

“That is absurd,” snapped Truman, and the others murmured agreement.

“Sir, Gromyko is a liar,” said Acheson.

Truman grinned slightly. “Well, that certainly simplifies things. Now, General Marshall, please tell us how that war is going.”

It was Burke’s cue. He stood and uncovered a large map on an easel. The familiar blue arrows that had been denoting American advances into the heart of the Reich were now countered by a number of red ones.

“Gentlemen,” Marshall began, “as I mentioned, the Russians have crossed the Elbe at a number of places and have attacked us at some points south of that as well. There have been a number of battles and we have both taken and given casualties. We do not have even rough estimates, but they are not likely to be light. Since we had some notice of the possibility of attack, General Eisenhower decided he would not confront the Russians directly at the Elbe or elsewhere they were gathered in force. Instead, he pulled his troops a few miles back and has begun a fighting withdrawal to the west.”

“Why?” snapped Truman. A pugnacious man, any form of retreat was anathema to him.

“Sir, he intends to wear them out and bleed them until their advantage in numbers is eliminated, or at least reduced. He is also aware that it will take some time for their army to cross the Elbe and organize itself in force. However, when done, they will vastly outnumber us on the ground.”

“And our navy’s useless for this war, isn’t it?” Truman asked.

“Absolutely,” said Marshall, “except to ensure that supplies reach Europe safely. The news does not get better. The Russian air force is estimated at between fifteen and twenty thousand planes, most of them Yak fighters and Stormovik tank-killing fighter-bombers, although they also have several thousand P-39 Airocobras and Douglas A-20 Havocs that we gave them as war supplies. Ike is reporting some very large air battles currently going on over the armies.

“Further, the Russians have a very real advantage over us in the area of armor. The T34 tank, which they have in the thousands, is simply the best tank in existence today. The Russians also have large numbers of artillery and like to use them for mass destruction.”

“Sweet Jesus, General,” Truman murmured. “What can we do to help Ike?”

“Two things, sir. First, in the short term we have to realize that we have no further army to send him. We have a couple of divisions forming in England and some troops in training that we can scrape together and send, but we will have to win or lose with essentially what we currently have in Europe. I have reviewed possibilities with Admiral King, and there is nothing in the Pacific we can send to Europe in the near future.