Red Inferno

CHAPTER 12

Major General Mikhail Bazarian was livid with rage, his lean and handsome face contorted and tears of anger being squeezed out of his eyes. In impotent fury he watched as the American artillery shells chewed up the column of Soviet armored vehicles that had strayed too close to a portion of his lines confronting the Americans in Potsdam. He had warned their fool of a commanding officer that the Americans could see them, and now they were paying the price.

The Soviet tanks had marched down the autobahn as if on parade. They had given no thought to the Yanks who were in Potsdam, only a few miles away. Just because the Americans had been quiet for so long did not mean they would remain dormant forever. The sight of the column of Soviet tanks had been too much of a temptation, and the American shelling had started almost as soon as the Russian vehicles were within range.

“Damnit!” he snarled, and a handful of officers nearby moved farther away from the tall and elegantly uniformed general. Another T34 was hit and tumbled off the roadway. A half mile away, at least a score of vehicles were burning and the remainder of the column was scattered in every direction in an attempt to find safety from the scourging artillery.

“I warned that stupid fucker,” he raged, “but would he listen to me? No! He was a fucking Russian and all I am is a stupid fucking Armenian. I hope the fucking Russian asshole has been blown to hell!”

A gasp from behind him reminded him that such criticisms were frowned upon, could even be fatal.

Bazarian pounded the table in his spartan office. It wasn’t fair. He was a good general, but what help had the Soviet high command given him? None. He had three divisions of second-rate infantry and one brigade of armor to contain the Americans. Worse, his tanks were not first-line. Most of them were light, old, and obsolete.

It would be enough to contain the Americans, he had been told. Bazarian’s orders were to prevent the Yanks from breaking out and rejoining their main army. Now, as the front lines moved farther west, it was less and less likely that any breakout would even be attempted.

Bazarian was in a backwater and the war was moving away from him. He was only a major general when he deserved to be a lieutenant general. If he were Russian and not Armenian he would have had the higher rank. He would also be commanding better-quality troops and would be in the front lines against the Yanks, instead of this military sewer.

Only rarely did a non-Russian achieve any real status in the new people’s government. It sometimes discouraged him that such prejudices still existed, but he presumed that it would take time for them to disappear. The Russians of Moscow and Leningrad neither liked nor trusted people whose skin was swarthier or whose hair was darker, or who thought and spoke differently because they were from different cultures.

He seethed. It wasn’t fair. He had always supported the people’s revolution and had devoted his life to the success of communism. He had even turned in relatives for practicing Christianity in secret. Religion was the opiate of the people and the enemy of the state, particularly the forms of Christianity and Islam that were practiced in the southern republics of the USSR. These religions were not docile, not like the tame Orthodox faith that had failed the tsars. Instead, the religions in and around his homeland of Armenia fomented rebellion and had to be stopped.

Another barrage landed, chewing up the ground around the destroyed column, hurling more metal and bodies into the air. There would be hell to pay for this defeat, and he knew who would be blamed. He would. His guns were returning fire and shelling the Potsdam perimeter, but he knew their effect was minimal. For one thing, he really didn’t know just where in the perimeter the American guns were situated. For another, he could logically presume they were well dug in and impervious to anything but a direct hit.

Nor could he continue firing for very long. He simply didn’t have the ammunition. Stavka, the military headquarters in Moscow, apparently didn’t think he needed much ammunition to hold the Americans at Potsdam. Nor were many of his weapons very good. A familiar shriek told him that his Katyushas were firing their multiple rockets at Potsdam, and that would have been good but for the fact that they were small 3.2-inch rockets mounted on an old Studebaker chassis. They might as well have been firecrackers. Stavka wouldn’t give him some of the 11.8-inch rockets that could really do some damage. Nor did he have any of the marvelous T34 tanks that were now burning in front of him. Instead, he had the older models that were now almost relics.

Chuikov would rip his ass and possibly relieve him of command. It wouldn’t matter that he had warned that drunken asshole Russian colonel in charge of the tanks that he was straying too close to the Americans. No, it would only matter that he, an Armenian, had let a Russian armored column be destroyed.

Bazarian had to do something and do it quickly in order to save his career, and possibly his life. He turned to an orderly and told him to get his division commanders and his armored brigade commander to his headquarters for a council of war. The Americans had lived in solitude and luxury for long enough. He would attack them and make them pay. No more pinpricks like a Katyusha rocket barrage, or a few artillery shells. No, he would launch an attack. It would take a few days to move and gather and position his men, particularly the brigade he had on the other side of the Havel, but it could be done. Then the Americans would pay.

A FEW MILES away, the American general Chris Miller absently sucked on his empty pipe. He was out of tobacco. He continued to receive reports of the damage his howitzers were inflicting on the Russian column. He hadn’t wanted to open fire on the Russian tanks, but quickly decided he had no choice. A radio message had told him that the air force was up to its ass in alligators and could not attack the column. He could not let it go by unscathed and cause American deaths in the future. It was also good for morale to strike back and cause such heavy damage.

“Cease firing,” he ordered.

The major of artillery was puzzled. “But, sir, the Reds are still firing back at us.”

“I know, but they’re not hitting anything. Besides, we don’t exactly have a lifetime supply of ammunition in here, now do we?”

Chagrined, the major agreed and relayed the order. The airdrops had been continuing, but now on an irregular, almost sporadic basis.

Miller sighed and wished someone had thought to air drop some tobacco. He hated poking among the enlisted men who smoked pipes and borrowing it, but he would and they would cheerfully lend it. He had a lot to think about and he needed the peace of mind the smoke from a pipe gave him.

“Leland.”

“Yes, sir,” the captain answered.

“Tell that kraut, von Schumann, that I want to talk with him.”

Wolfgang von Schumann saw Elisabeth and the little boy strolling in the sunshine. She had told him of her concerns that Pauli would never be able to get over his fear of the noise the guns made. Who could? he had answered. She said she wondered if he would quiver and shake every time a thunderstorm rumbled. She had said, harshly, would there ever be a time when they could marvel at the sound of nature and not of the guns of man?

Von Schumann was limping by in the company of an American officer when he saw her. “What are you thinking of, little girl, a hot meal or your American officer?”

Elisabeth smiled and stuck out her tongue at him, making von Schumann laugh. He knew that the girl-he had a hard time thinking of her as a young woman-would have been incapable of such an impudent act in response to his teasing only a short while earlier. As to the American officer, he had been by only moments before to see whether she was safe from the Soviet barrage, and then literally ran back to his unit. Von Schumann had caught the look on both their faces on learning they were all right. He had seen them together several other times and sometimes envied them their youth, their innocence, and, God willing, their future.

“Amazing. All that shelling and they accomplished so little?” said von Schumann.

Leland agreed. “In most cases, all they did was rearrange some earlier ruins and knock down some empty buildings. Casualties were extremely light.”

Unless you happened to be one of those casualties, von Schumann always thought on hearing the phrase.

On arrival at headquarters, he was ushered immediately into Miller’s office. As in prior instances, there were no other American officers present. This helped Miller continue the fiction that he was not receiving any official help from a German.

Miller gestured von Schumann to a seat. “Using your artificial leg today, I see.”

Von Schumann grinned. “The crutch was a shameless cry for sympathy. It didn’t work.”

“I’m not surprised. No one considers you helpless. You don’t know where there’s any pipe tobacco, do you?” As leader of the civilian population, von Schumann had made a number of interesting contacts and had turned up some surprising creature-comfort articles.

“Not offhand, but I’ll look into it.”

“Good. Now what do you think of what just happened? What was this Bazarian creature trying to prove?”

Leland had informed von Schumann of the destruction of the Russian tank column. The former German colonel paused before responding. “I think you have made a mortal enemy of the man who commands the Russians. Not that you had a choice, of course. You had to bombard those tanks. To have done otherwise would have been a betrayal of your oath as an officer.”

“So what will he do? Attack us?”

Von Schumann nodded. “He doesn’t have a choice. You have disgraced him, and the punishment for disgrace in the Soviet Union is loss of command at best, and he could be shot.” Von Schumann stretched out his artificial leg. He still had difficulty sitting comfortably. “But you do have some advantages.”

Miller smiled. That was why he had invited the German. It was common knowledge that some of his people were skillful at questioning new arrivals. They had also ferreted out a couple of attempts by the Russian commander to infiltrate his own people into the Potsdam area. The Russians had been imprisoned, while the German turncoats had quietly disappeared, likely facedown into the Havel and now floating downstream.

“Herr Oberst,” Miller said, using von Schumann’s rank in the Wehrmacht. It was equivalent to colonel. “Please tell me of those advantages.”

The German responded, speaking in a slow voice. “You know you are confronted by at least three rifle divisions. These are very ordinary units, perhaps even less so. At full strength they would each have just under ten thousand men. I think we can assume that the war has worn them down and that they are not quite at full strength. More important, they are not Russians. They are a mixed lot from the southern part of the Soviet Union and are commanded by an Armenian, Bazarian. This means they are neither as well trained nor as well equipped as an equivalent Russian unit would be. You should also know that they are likely the shit soldiers who have been plundering and defiling Germany. The Russians are tough men, but many of those from non-Russian areas of the Soviet empire are barbarians and animals. Sometimes the Russians refer to those types of soldiers as ‘black-asses.’ It is equivalent to your referring to a Negro as a nigger.”

Miller didn’t quite agree with that comparison but said nothing. He toyed with his pipe. “What about their tanks, their artillery?”

Von Schumann chuckled. “They have more tanks than you, but many of theirs are the older, lighter models, and not the T34s or larger Stalins we have learned to fear. As to artillery, they have a number of 122-millimeter guns and you have 105s and a handful of 155s; it’s almost a trade-off. They have larger-caliber mortars, but the overall advantage belongs to you since you are on the defensive-at least until they bring in reinforcements and assuming you don’t throw away your advantages. They may be shit soldiers, but they can kill very nicely if you let them. If led properly, they may just fight like the animals they are. Like I said, this Russian force surrounding you is second echelon. Their general may or may not be.”

Miller digested the information. He had the remnants of one armored division in Potsdam, not even a third of its strength. Far too many had been destroyed or were missing after the initial onslaught.

Von Schumann continued. “You’ve had a major problem sending out patrols, since few of your men speak Russian or, for that matter, German. With your permission, I will send out some of my men to find out the exact locations of their artillery and their tanks. To date I have been only passively acquiring information from refugees.”

Miller was not displeased at the thought of Germans actively spying for the Americans. “Who will you send? Most of your people are either women or old men.”

Von Schumann’s answer was tinged with bitterness. He knew what had happened to so many of the women in his flock. “We certainly won’t send the women. Those pigs would fuck them and then cut their throats, regardless of their age or condition. No, I’ll send old and crippled men like myself. One can hope they will not be considered a threat by the Russians.”

Miller cleared his throat. His own attempts at longer-range patrolling had gotten nowhere and had cost him needless casualties. If von Schumann could provide the information he needed, then he could be well situated to resist the Russian attack.

“I appreciate this.”

“Thank you, General, but I am not doing it out of any sense of devotion to the American cause. I see cooperating with you as the lesser of two evils. Indeed, there is no comparison.”

“Even so, you could have stood aside. Many of your people have done just that.”

“Then they are fools, General Miller. Besides, I have my reasons. Do you wish to know them?”

Miller thought he knew the answer. “Go ahead.”

“I believe there is a good chance that you will ultimately win. In any case, for me it is the only chance I would have to continue my life. Should that victory occur, I wish your government to know that I assisted you so that I will not be impeded in my efforts to find my wife and daughter.”

Miller thought about his wife and two sons back home in Oklahoma. The boys were grown and both were in the service. He understood totally. He always got a laugh by saying he wanted to go home and play with his children’s mother. His wife was a delightful and passionate woman he loved dearly, and his children were the joy of his life. He couldn’t imagine the agony von Schumann must be feeling.

“I can’t promise anything, but I will do what I can.”

“I understand. There is another reason for helping you, General Miller. We are both fighting the Russians. If you believe in the saying that the enemy of my enemy is my friend, then we will soon be allies in fact, and not just in principle.”

Miller laughed. “Stranger things than that have happened, Herr Oberst. Nothing could possibly surprise me anymore.”

The several C-47S that carried General Marshall and his entourage had to make fueling stops on the way to Europe. Thus, a fatigued Steve Burke found that the air force base outside Reykjavik, Iceland, was a desolate and forlorn place, and surprisingly cold for the time of year.

From recently acquired experience, Burke knew it would take a couple of hours to refuel the planes and possibly change pilots for the next leg, which would take them to London. There they would spend a few days before going on to France. As he walked about the area aimlessly, a young captain came running up to him.

“Colonel Burke, General Marshall wishes to see you.”

Unlike that time in what seemed to be the distant past, he raised no foolish questions, only nodded and let the captain lead him.

Marshall had been in the first plane and had taken over the base commander’s office. He was seated behind a desk and had just finished a quick meal.

“Sit down, Colonel,” Marshall ordered as he pushed away his tray. “I need information from you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to tell me everything you know about Josef Stalin.”

When Burke’s face registered surprise, Marshall clarified the order. “Now, Colonel, I know what you’re thinking, that I doubtless already know a good deal about the man, and you’re quite right. But since I already know what I know, I want to know what additional information you might know. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Besides, we’ve got more than an hour to kill and I’ve pumped everybody else on the flight. Now, you’ve said you never met Stalin, so how do you know him?”

For a moment, Burke was flustered. Had the general forgotten their first conversation? Then he realized that Marshall was not upset, and perhaps was even gently teasing him in an attempt to increase his store of knowledge.

“Well, sir, since I do speak and read the language, I was able to go over his writings, his speeches, and even listen to recordings of his voice. His speeches are quite dull and he speaks in a monotone, by the way. In that regard, he is quite unlike Hitler, who was so bombastic and emotional.”

“What about Trotsky? Did you ever meet him?”

Now Burke was on firmer ground. “Yes, sir, I spoke with him on several occasions when he was in Mexico. Ironically, I was supposed to meet with him a few days after he was murdered by Stalin’s thugs back in 1940.” He saw he now had Marshall’s attention. “Trotsky was quite interesting. He really expected to take over Russia upon Lenin’s death. Like so many people, he totally underestimated Josef Stalin.”

“Haven’t we all,” Marshall said.

“General, Stalin is not a Russian. He is from the republic of Georgia, which is in the Caucasus Mountains and in the southern part of the Soviet Union. He was raised in a Russian Orthodox environment and even attended a seminary for a while. He may have thought of studying for the priesthood. Some apologists for him see this as a sign of impending or latent Christianity. I don’t. I see it as a need to be involved in some sort of belief, and he has chosen communism as his one true faith. Or perhaps it chose him.

“Sir, those Communists who ultimately took over from the tsar and the moderates in the revolution considered themselves world revolutionaries. They were so naive that they thought the world would turn their way and reject capitalism in a matter of months or, at worst, a couple of years. All they really needed was for the message to get out. For that reason, the first Communist leaders, like Lenin and Trotsky and even Stalin, were unwilling and unprepared to enter into agreements with foreign states they thought would shortly cease to exist. They thought nation-states would go the way of the dodo in their new workers’ world, and that the result would be a totally stateless worldwide society.”

Marshall chuckled. “It must be quite unsettling for them to see us all still here.”

“It is, but the point is very significant. The true believers, and this includes Stalin, see no difference whatsoever between the democracies and the totalitarian states like Germany. If you are not a Communist, then you are a capitalist and must be the enemy. They will enter into agreements of necessity and convenience when they have to, or it’s to their advantage, and repudiate them when they wish; thus, it was no surprise to me when the Russians signed that pact with the Nazis, and it is, somewhat in hindsight, no surprise that they have attacked us. They saw a chance for gain and they have taken it.”

“And again, we have underestimated Stalin.”

“Yes, sir. He became Lenin’s successor not because Lenin wanted him but because he was the most ruthless and determined of all the potential candidates to emerge after Lenin’s death. He will wait years for an opportunity and then take it without any care for the consequences. Do you recall what he did to the kulaks?”

“I believe they were farmers who opposed him.”

“In Russian,” Burke said, “the word kulak means ‘tight fisted.’ They were fairly prosperous farmers and other property owners and the poorer peasants were jealous of them. He simply burned their crops, sealed off their lands, and let them all starve to death. There were at least a couple of million of them and now they are all gone. Dead. It’s almost like the way Hitler murdered the Jews. He uses his army the same way. He purged it of most of its officers a few years ago and did the same thing with his political rivals. He had almost all of them killed.”

Marshall shook his head. “Of course I knew of the purges, but had not realized their scope or impact. What you are inferring is that he is willing to totally use up his army against us if it means victory for him and communism.”

“Yes, sir. A man like Stalin would think that another army can be built out of simply growing a fresh crop of children. He might consider their lives like a farmer considers wheat. Something to be planted and then harvested when needed.

“Sir, Stalin is quiet and meticulous. He did not even have an official title until a little while ago. The war has forced him to come out of the shadows and into the light, and I’m not certain he’s comfortable with that.”

“Interesting. Why?”

“Well, sir, he might have had a nervous breakdown when Hitler invaded in 1940. He’d had plenty of warnings regarding Hitler’s intentions, but chose to ignore them. Despite the fact that he doubtless planned on betraying Hitler at some future date of his choosing, he could not cope with someone else betraying him first. I believe the war with Germany was even more devastating to Russia and Stalin’s plans than we have estimated. Because of this, I believe he now has several fixations that are all based on previous utterances. First, he believes that he must have secure borders for his country, and that means a large buffer zone which includes Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, and other countries. Second, he must eliminate Germany as a major power, preferably through absorbing Germany’s population and resources.

“And finally, he sees an opportunity to export the Communist revolution, which is most dear to him. Yes, he is a dictator and a murderer, but he is also a devout Marxist and feels that communism and capitalism cannot coexist peacefully on this planet.”

Marshall nodded thoughtfully. “Good assessment, Colonel. Much of it I already knew, but you brought up some very good points.”

Steve basked in the compliment. “Thank you, sir, but there is one thing that puzzles me and that is the fact of the timing.”

“And timing is everything, is it not?”

It was obvious that the general was in a very good mood, so Burke decided to continue. “General, it is common knowledge that we would be pulling the bulk of our forces out of Europe as soon as possible for the invasion of Japan. So why didn’t he wait until they were gone and we were bogged down fighting in the Pacific? Further, why didn’t he wait until we had won that war as well and had disbanded our armed forces? In a year or two we wouldn’t have much in the way of a military force anywhere to stand in the way of the Reds if they decided to suddenly take over Europe. So, again, why now? What advantage does Stalin perceive in attacking now? Unless the events of this war have pushed him over the psychological edge, there is no reason for him to attack right now instead of later.”

Steve paused. Marshall was looking at him very intently.

Burke swallowed and continued. Was he treading on sacred ground? “Sir, it’s almost as if Stalin is aware of or believes that something is going to happen that would wipe out any Russian advantage; that he has discovered some dark secret that has made him make the calculated decision that it is in his, and the revolution’s, best interest to make war now and not later. For some reason,” Steve added softly as Marshall’s eyes bore into him, “he must feel that Russia will be weaker in the near future, and not stronger.”

Marshall’s face was impassive and his eyes hooded. Steve became aware that he had touched a nerve. There was a hidden reason for the Russian attack, and he realized that Marshall knew precisely what it was.

In a moment, Marshall relaxed and graciously thanked him for his analysis, and then dismissed him. On the way back to the C-47, Steve wondered just what the hell was going on. Was it anything Natalie could shed light on when he got back to Washington? He had to know.

Elisabeth walked slowly and carefully into Captain Leland’s office. He didn’t like Germans and didn’t know what to make of her. Yes, she was a refugee and, yes, she was only half German, but the half that was German had supported Hitler, at least for a while, and that clearly bothered Leland.

Perhaps he was just confused, she thought. She knew she certainly was. In a short while she would be meeting Jack Logan and they would have a quiet few minutes together. Perhaps Leland was jealous of the two of them? He didn’t wear a wedding ring but that meant nothing. Many men didn’t have one and others removed it while in the army. Something about getting hurt, although she wondered how Leland would ever get hurt. He was General Miller’s aide, not a combat soldier.

Leland smiled stiffly. “Good afternoon, Miss Wolf. I have something I’d like for you to look at.”

And good afternoon to you too, she said and smiled sweetly. He handed her a sheet of paper. The message had been poorly typed and then run off on a mimeograph machine. On the upper left-hand corner was a poorly drawn star and a hammer and sickle. The Communists are at work, she thought as she read it.

“Very predictable,” she said and handed it back. “The writer is obviously a German and a Communist and wants us all to surrender to the Russians so we can live in a socialist paradise instead of under capitalism.”

“About what I thought,” Leland said. “We’ve found a number of copies. And now the big question-any idea who in your group might be doing this?”

The question surprised her. “Captain, there are close to two thousand refugees here in Potsdam. I don’t even know most of their names, much less their political persuasions. There was a time before Hitler came to power when German communism was rather strong, but not anymore. Hitler sent all he could find to the camps.”

“Then this might be a German Communist who escaped from a camp?”

Lis nodded. She heard Jack talking to someone in the background. “That’s a very good point,” she said, and Leland smiled briefly. “Hitler jailed Communists along with homosexuals, criminals, and just about everyone who disagreed with him. I will talk to von Schumann and we will ask some questions. We may also find out that the author is very young. The writing is so naively done.”

“I have to ask you something, Miss Wolf. You just said Hitler jailed those who disagreed with him. May I assume that you and your family did not disagree with him?”

“Captain, I will tell you the same thing I’ve told others, including Jack Logan. In the beginning, we all thought Hitler was our savior and, yes, we all joined the Nazi Party. Then when the wars and the deaths began, we had second thoughts. My father was demoted from his position within the diplomatic service because of his reservations, but he never crossed the line where the Gestapo noticed him. In a way, we weren’t brave enough.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Leland. “My sister married a Jewish immigrant from Poland who came over in the early thirties. He is terrified that all his family have been slaughtered in Auschwitz. He’s heard nothing about them, and my sister says it’s driving him nuts.”

“I’m afraid I can only offer sympathy. However, I do have a question for you. How did your family react to your sister marrying a Jew?”

“Touche, Miss Wolf,” Leland said with a wan smile. “My mother said she’d almost rather my sister had married a Negro than a Jew.”

“Or how about an Irishman?” asked Logan as he entered the room.

For the first time, Leland smiled genuinely. “An Irishman would be worse. You two have a nice dinner.”

Jack took Lis’s arm and led her outside. The walked a few blocks to where he could see the bunker he used as his headquarters and have a view of the Havel. Finally, the river was worth looking at, as the flow of bodies seemed to have stopped.

“Would your ladyship like me to open your rations?” he asked.

They each had a twelve-ounce can of something that claimed to be beef along with a soggy mass that purported to be potatoes. Originally, C rations were not intended for long-term use, but people in a siege could not be choosy. With plane drops diminishing, it was understood that all rations would have to last a long time and they would soon be sharing cans and not eating one all by themselves. When that time came, Jack hoped he’d be able to sneak something to Lis and Pauli.

“Outstanding,” Lis said as she wiped her mouth with her hand. The food in her can had disappeared, while Jack’s was about a third full.

“You’re joking.”

She punched him lightly on the arm. “I was talking about the company. The food was truly awful, but at least it is filling and somewhat nourishing. A few weeks ago I would have killed for something like that. I just hope I never have to feel that way again.”

Jack took a deep breath. “No guarantees, are there? What worries me is that all this must come to an end sooner or later.”

“And that, dear Jack, would be both wonderful and awful, perhaps even horrible. My fear is that the Russians would win and we would all die. My other fear is that your Americans will win and we will be separated.” She laughed bitterly. “I don’t see any way this interlude can have a happy ending.”

“I know. If we’re relieved, I’ll still be in the army and have to go wherever my unit is sent, while you’ll be left here as a refugee. In theory, at least, you’d be safe. It just scares the hell out of me picturing you and Pauli wandering all over Germany looking for a place to live and something to eat.”

“Jack, do you want us to meet after this is over?”

“Good God, yes.”

“Then you’ve made up my mind for me. When this war does end, I will contact Canadian authorities and use my dual citizenship to get Pauli and me out of Germany.”

Jack took a deep breath. It was a glimmer of hope. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notepad and began writing. “Do you know where Port Huron is in Michigan?”

“I think so.”

“Good. This is my address and my parents’ names and our phone number. When you get out, notify them and they will help you.”

She squeezed next to him and put her head on his shoulder. She took a deep breath as he put his arm around her. For the moment, she felt secure and content. She had a goal. Canada.

“Jack, when was the last time you kissed a girl?”

He grinned. “Ages. I’ve forgotten how.”

“Liar,” she said, laughing, and promptly proved that neither he nor she had forgotten a thing.