Red Inferno

CHAPTER 13

As the prime minister entered the Oval Office, Harry Truman’s first impression of Winston Churchill was one of mild surprise that the man whose force of will had helped sustain Britain was so darned short. The second impression, and a very negative one, was that Churchill looked so very old. With a jolt, he realized that the bulldog of Britain was seventy-one, an age when most men should have retired and be writing their memoirs. Worse, Churchill showed every year. His wartime service as Britain’s leader had taken a serious physical toll. At sixty-one, Truman knew he not only looked much younger but acted much sprier.

Truman shuddered. How would he look in a few years as president? Would the combined weight of the office and continuing aging drag him down too? Well, he thought wryly, nothing like starting a new war to set the tone of a new administration to help him find out.

Churchill broke the brief silence. “Mr. President, it is indeed an honor to meet you. The late president has spoken well of you.”

Like hell, Truman thought. He sincerely doubted that FDR had ever mentioned him. “I am honored to meet you too, sir. He spoke of you often when we discussed world matters.”

Churchill laughed at the polite lies. They shook hands and took seats along a wall where they were separated by a small table. No one else was present for this brief meeting.

Truman began. “First I should inform you that Mr. Speer has been taken to the Executive Office Building across the street. When we are finished speaking, we can go and hear what he has to say.”

“Very good.”

“Now, Prime Minister, let me be most frank. Obviously, I am not in the least bit happy with what has transpired with Stalin, and I am concerned by rumors that you are not displeased that we are in this new war.”

“I did not want this war either, Mr. President,” Churchill said sadly. “I merely urged firmness when dealing with Stalin. I did not for one minute expect such an irrational onslaught. Kindly recall that my British soldiers are bleeding and dying as well as yours.”

Churchill smiled bleakly. “I merely wanted the Russian bear caged. I wished Stalin to know that the democracies had strength and a willingness to let him go no further. There was nothing we could do about the countries he’d already seized, but we could not let him impose his will on Germany or the rest of Europe.

“Mr. President, despite the fact that the British empire is far-flung, England itself is a small island that could be vulnerable to aggressor nations should we let it. Unlike the United States, whose moats are oceans, England’s moat is only twenty or thirty miles wide, not thousands. In these days of bombers and missiles, safety is virtually nonexistent. I might add, sir, that your moat is shrinking as well, and that your traditional emphasis on isolation may no longer be appropriate. Ergo, we allied ourselves with others, sometimes distastefully, to maintain our security.”

“Did it matter,” Truman asked, “what the policies were of the nations you were allied with and against?”

“Not at all,” he replied candidly. “My predecessors at Downing Street and I have always had one goal in common, and that was the preservation of the empire as a sovereign, powerful, and prosperous nation. I once implied that I would seek an alliance with the devil if I thought it would help England and I meant it.”

Truman grinned. “Are you comparing the United States with Satan?”

Churchill chuckled and continued. “France and Italy are hopeless and impoverished both militarily and morally, while Spain and Portugal are inconsequential. Therefore, a resurgent Germany is our only hope for stability in Europe in the face of Communist Russia. If the Russian bear is allowed to swallow Eastern Europe and now Germany, it will be strong enough to reach out with a mighty paw and smash the British empire.”

“I see your point,” Truman said grimly.

Churchill rose awkwardly. His joints were stiff and he was still fatigued from his trip. “The war with Russia is indeed a tragedy. However, it may have been inevitable. It is at least occurring at a time when our nations are strong, not weak.” He dramatically checked a pocket watch. “Do we not have a German waiting to see us?”

“We do.”

“Then, Mr. President, shall we not hear what he has to say?”

Billy Tolliver took a moment to take stock of his situation. He and his platoon were settled in an unnamed village about ten miles west of the Elbe, and a narrow road ran through it that ultimately went to the very old city of Brunswick. The village was of fairly new construction and bland, with no front lawns. The road ran almost right up to the sterile houses and buildings.

They had fallen back from a village much like it yesterday and would doubtless find a village just like this one a few hundred yards up the road when the Russian pressure became too much to bear. Bear, he thought and smiled, bear the Russian bear. Or should they shave it and bare the bear?

“Something funny, Lieutenant?” Holmes looked confused. Was his platoon leader losing it?

“A private thought, Corporal. Nothing important.”

The recently promoted Holmes shrugged but did not look impressed. Tolliver sometimes thought that Holmes did not have the respect for an officer that an enlisted man really ought to, and seemed to be sneering at him in his New England accent.

Worse, Holmes was a Jew, and Tolliver hadn’t had much experience with Jews. There were very few of them in and around Opelika and none that he knew of at the Citadel, where he’d gotten his degree, and the only ones he could think of ran stores or pawnshops in Montgomery or Mobile. Like many people, he hadn’t given much thought to what the Nazis were doing and still wasn’t certain he believed all that stuff about mass murders. Still, he’d seen a couple of camps and was beginning to change his mind.

Tolliver did some quick calculating just to make sure he hadn’t forgotten something important in his troop’s dispositions. He had three squads, which, including himself and Holmes, totaled only twenty-four men. With that he was to stop, or at least delay, whatever the Russians were going to send down the damn road and through the damn village. The rest of the company had similar assignments, as did the battalion, the regiment, and the division. So did the whole damn army, for that matter, he realized. Slow or stop the Russians was their only goal.

At least this particular village wasn’t in ruins like so many of them. Germany, he decided, was a study in contrasts. While so much of the land had been reduced to rubble only a few feet high, there were other areas that, inexplicably, had been untouched by the physical presence of war. Of course, with the Russians due at any time, there was little likelihood of that continuing for this particular neat and tidy collection of brick and concrete houses and stores.

They were in a gasthaus, a tavern, whose location gave his platoon good fields of fire down the main road from the east, as well as a secondary road that he would consider a tempting way to enter the village if he were the Russian commander. He also had men with machine guns, BARs, and bazookas in homes flanking the gasthaus.

The gasthaus had also given his platoon something they hadn’t had in a very long time, a couple of steins of beer apiece. To their astonishment, they had found a perfectly good cask of suds in the cellar that Tolliver had carefully portioned out to his crew. The local krauts, he decided, would never miss it, and if someone complained, fuck ’em. His men deserved it. Even Holmes had seemed appreciative of the gesture.

“Second squad hears tanks.” It was Holmes on his radio.

“Can they see anything?”

“No, sir, and it only sounds like a couple.”

Yeah, Tolliver thought, only a couple. When this war with Russia first started, he had thirty-five men in his platoon. He had seen how much damage just a couple of Russian tanks could do.

“Can we get artillery or air support?”

Holmes shook his head. “Air is tied up. We’ll be getting artillery support in about ten minutes when they finish with other targets.”

Wonderful, Tolliver thought. In ten minutes, they could all be dead or speaking Russian.

“Here they come!”

Tolliver had no idea who yelled. It hardly mattered. He saw a wave of humanity, he guessed company-strength, surge into view. Behind them came a pair of T34s. As he watched, his company’s mortars started landing in the Russian infantry, flinging several soldiers into the air. His platoon’s machine guns and BARs opened up, cutting more holes in the advancing infantry. It didn’t stop them, and the two tanks opened fire with their own machine guns as the Americans revealed themselves.

“Duck,” Tolliver screamed automatically as the lead tank fired its main gun. A second later, the top floor of the building to his right disintegrated in a billowing cloud of dust and smoke that obscured his view. The second tank fired and smashed another building.

As planned, Tolliver’s men fired some more rounds at the advancing infantry and retreated a few houses down the road. Cautiously, the tanks started to enter the village. Built-up areas would be death traps for tanks if they weren’t careful, and these tankers looked cautious indeed.

Supported by their infantry, the Russians grew bolder and moved forward to about fifty yards from Tolliver’s new position. Tolliver’s gunners fired, cutting down a dozen infantry, causing the remaining Russians to dive for the cover of nearby houses.

“No!”

Tolliver yelled to no avail as he saw one of his men with a bazooka run out in front of the lead tank and fire. As he knew it would, the bazooka round bounced harmlessly off the front armor of the Russian tank as its machine gun opened up and, with an insane chatter, cut the soldier into bloody halves. Tolliver couldn’t tell who it was. Probably one of the newer guys. The older ones knew better than to try something like that.

The tank rumbled on and squashed the dead American soldier. They would have to abandon the village under close fire from the Russian armor. It was the worst possible situation. Then he saw movement on the roof of a building to his left front. Another American with a bazooka, but this time firing downward. He saw the round hit behind the turret, and a moment later smoke and flames belched from the vents and openings of the lead tank as its ammo started to cook off inside. No one got out. The road was blocked by the wrecked tank, and they had a moment’s respite.

“Holmes, any idea where the rest of the Reds are?”

“Glad you asked, sir. We are being flanked. I suggest we phone mother and tell her we’re leaving.”

Tolliver was about to snap at Holmes for his damn Yankee insolence, but thought it could wait for a better time. “Tell Company we’re pulling out.” Russian infantrymen were peering from behind the burning tank and firing randomly at the American positions.

“Sir,” said Holmes. “I’ve got artillery. They want coordinates.”

Tolliver grinned wolfishly. “Give them ours and tell them to wait five minutes.”

Holmes paled and relayed the information. In a barely controlled panic, the platoon gathered its wounded and ran down the road, taking advantage of every wall and shrub to conceal themselves from the Russian soldiers who were now advancing into the village from both sides. Finally, they made it to their previously designated rendezvous point, just as they had done at the last several villages they’d abandoned. Tolliver checked his watch. It had taken seven minutes.

Tolliver looked at Holmes, who shrugged. “I told artillery to wait ten. Five seemed a little close.”

Maybe I won’t court-martial him, Tolliver thought, just have him flogged and then skinned alive. He counted heads. There were only eighteen left and two of them were wounded.

Just as he finished his tally, the first artillery round hit the village, followed by a dozen more that caused flames and sent concussions that they could feel. In seconds, the neat little German village no longer existed except as smoking rubble. Nor for that matter did the remaining Red tank and the rest of the company of Russian infantry.

“Who the hell’s winning this war, Lieutenant?” asked Holmes. He was gasping under the weight of his radio. “And why the hell are we even fighting it? I want to kill the Germans who are killing my people. I really don’t give a shit about the Russians.”

“Shut up,” snapped Tolliver.

He hated it when Holmes asked questions he couldn’t answer. But the man had a point. Who the hell was winning and why was it started in the first place? It was, he thought, nothing but a big snafu. No, a fubar-Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition. They were hurting the Reds, but there were always more Soviet soldiers, while reinforcements and replacements for his platoon were nonexistent.

Tolliver understood that modern war consisted of a large number of small skirmishes like the one he’d just fought, and not a grand epic battle like Gettysburg. His great-granddaddy had fought for the Confederacy and lost a foot at Gettysburg. Before his memory failed him, Grampa had told him a hundred times of long rows of Union soldiers in dirty blue uniforms confronting long rows of Confederates in dirty gray or butternut. He’d described battles where thousands of men could be seen shooting and falling. Now, Tolliver couldn’t even see the platoon next to him.

So, if a hundred skirmishes were fought and the United States won more than fifty of them, then they were winning the war, weren’t they? Fewer than fifty and they were losing. So what had just happened? He’d mauled a Russian company, but lost the village. Had it been a win, loss, or draw?

He was too tired to care.

“Holmes, you figure it out, and when you do, let me know.”

If Albert Speer was awed by the presence of the two men who headed the coalition against his beloved Germany, he did not show it. An architect by education, he had risen in the ranks of the Nazi hierarchy to a ministerial rank that made him virtual czar of the production of all goods in the Third Reich.

That he was good-looking and articulate hadn’t hurt him either. Speer was forty years old, and his last official title had been Minister of Armaments and Munitions. He had been in complete charge of Germany’s war-making capabilities.

Truman did not shake his hand, only gestured him coldly to a seat in the room they were using. Translators were present to be used if necessary, but Speer’s English was up to the task.

“Mr. President, on behalf of my government, I wish to have an armistice between our three nations.”

“What about France and Russia?” Truman asked, tight-lipped. He had never seen a high-ranking Nazi before and was uncertain as to how to act. He decided on controlled belligerency.

Speer blinked. Unused to diplomacy, he had forgotten about the importance of France to the Western Allies. “Your correction is noted. We wish peace between Germany and the western allies of Britain, France, and the United States. Even though the Third Reich is defeated, it should be obvious that we have no desire to surrender to Russia. Nor should you wish us to do so. Surely your policies of unconditional surrender and no separate peace no longer apply under the current circumstances.”

Truman said nothing, merely stared at him, which encouraged Speer to continue. “As evidence of our good faith, Admiral Doenitz, as successor to the late Adolf Hitler, has offered the following without reservation or the need for you to reciprocate.

“First, we will release all Allied prisoners we now hold, although that is no longer a large number. Your troops have overrun most of our POW camps. We will expedite the transfer, although some prisoners are wounded and will require special handling. Additionally, any soldiers who have wandered into our area or airmen who are shot down as a result of your new war with Russia and make it to our lines will be returned to you.”

Truman thought it was a good start but kept a poker face.

Speer continued. “We will signal all U-boats at sea to surface and surrender. This will occur at noon tomorrow London time, which, I trust, is sufficient time for you to notify your ships that the boats are surrendering. Second, we will be handing over to the British, under Montgomery, the cities of Emden and Wilhelmshaven.”

Truman almost snorted. The U-boats had been ineffective for some time and the cities named had been under virtual British control for a number of days. He was aware that the Germans in the north of Germany as well as in Italy had been quietly and individually negotiating the surrender of various units as the war wound down. He had seen reports that indicated a significant level of cooperation between the advancing British and the retreating Germans in order to avoid needless casualties. He could not blame them.

“You can do better,” Truman snapped, causing both Churchill and Speer to look startled.

Speer recovered quickly. “We will further direct the garrisons of Dunkirk, Lorient, St. Nazaire, and the Channel Islands to surrender immediately. That will free up one more of your divisions. The 66th, I believe.”

The president knew that freeing one division, particularly one that he knew had not yet seen battle, was a drop in the bucket, but it was a start.

“Good,” said Truman. “Now just what do you want out of this?”

The bluntness of the question made Churchill smile. It did not faze Speer. “Mr. President, my government is anxious that Germany not be overrun by the Russians and enslaved by her.”

“Some say it would be what you deserved.” Truman looked like he was beginning to enjoy himself.

“My country, sir, is trying now to free itself from the shackles of Nazism. Germany has a right to exist, just like every other nation. The fact that we made a major mistake and allowed a madman to reign should not condemn a people to extermination or the living hell of perpetual slavery.”

Neither Truman nor Churchill was surprised by Speer’s calling Hitler a madman. Late in the war, Speer had become totally disillusioned with Hitler, had blocked his orders to burn Germany to the ground, and had even contemplated assassinating Hitler, but the opportunity had not arisen.

“Yet,” Truman persisted, “both you and Doenitz were Nazis. In point of fact, wasn’t your Admiral Doenitz one of the few ranking navy officers to embrace Hitler thoroughly?”

“It is sad but true,” Speer answered. “I too will have to answer for my actions in employing millions of slave laborers to help run the industry of the Reich. I felt it was unavoidable and essential at the time and, I will not lie, I might do it again under the same circumstances.

“As to Admiral Doenitz, he did become an ardent Nazi and, like so many others, myself included, firmly believed that Hitler was the savior of a downtrodden Germany, and, also like so many, turned a blind eye to the man’s faults and the atrocities that have been committed in his name.

“Should you accept our offer of surrender, Great Britain and the United States will not have to worry about the German army and air force during this war with Russia. At worst, the German units will be interned after surrender. At best?” He smiled and shrugged.

Finally, Churchill spoke. “Can you speak for all Germans, Herr Speer? Isn’t there a rival to Admiral Doenitz?”

Speer’s answer was confident, and Truman had the feeling that at least this part of the conversation had been rehearsed. After all, hadn’t Churchill and Speer arrived together?

“Rivals? Hardly. The only senior members of the old regime who might still be a factor are Himmler, Goering, and Bormann. Himmler is with Doenitz but under arrest, and Goering is wandering about Germany, apparently alone, while Bormann is either hiding in some Berlin cellar or already dead. No, gentlemen, there are no rivals to the admiral.”

“What about war crimes, Mr. Speer?” Truman asked. “Haven’t you just admitted your own culpability in that area?”

“Yes,” Speer responded, “and I am personally willing to take the consequences for those actions when the time is appropriate. Regarding other so-called war criminals, however, I am aware that any peace between us will doubtless result in the lesser criminals going free to be judged only by God. The major criminals, such as those SS and Gestapo men and women who murdered people and ran the death camps, can still be caught and prosecuted.”

Truman nodded. Unfortunately, there was a sad kind of logic to what Speer was saying. Germany had to be removed as an enemy. Even though she and her armies were largely in Allied hands, there still remained the potential for disaster if even the remnants of German armies remained on the loose to fight whomever they wished.

Truman realized he really didn’t have much choice. It was time to make a deal with the devil and it was apparent that Churchill had already come to that conclusion.

“All right,” Truman said. “I assume you have the power to act on Doenitz’s behalf; therefore, you will radio him that we have an agreement in principle and that the German armies still in the field are to lay down their arms to us and the British. I would also like some indication as to whether or not the German people will actively support the Allies, especially regarding information and resistance from behind the Soviet lines.”

Speer nodded and made a note.

“On the other hand,” Truman continued, “I do not think it appropriate for you to even think of German soldiers fighting alongside Americans and British at this time. The German armies must surrender and become prisoners, not allies.”

“Sir,” Speer said, “my admiral is currently at Flensburg on the Danish border, with most of what remains of the German army, perhaps a half million men. I propose that these units remain in the area north of the Kiel Canal and south of Denmark to preserve the polite fiction that we are still an independent nation. We would also serve as a buffer between the Russians and the Danes should the British be forced to retreat beyond Hamburg, which, I must say, seems quite likely.”

Truman could scarcely believe what he was hearing. The Germans were willing to protect Denmark? What had his world come to?

Speer continued. “However, if you wish us to form a buffer, we will require food. Simply put, both the German army and the Danes are starving. Will you get us food?”

“That sounds reasonable,” Truman heard himself say. “And if you are overrun and have to leave this Flensburg place, we can establish a government in exile somewhere, perhaps”-he grinned evilly at Churchill-“in London.” Churchill’s jaw dropped at the thought.

“Excellent,” said Speer with the touch of a smile.

“And now we lie down with the devil,” Truman murmured, and Churchill nodded. “Tell me, do you have any thoughts on defeating the Soviets?”

Speer smiled. “Why yes, I do.”

Tony the Toad saw the Russian a scant second before the Russian saw him. It was enough. It was almost dark, and the Russian soldier had turned the corner of the building and was almost upon Tony. Sensing the recognition of danger on the other man’s face, Tony pulled his wide-bladed knife from its sheath on his belt and rammed it deep into the Russian’s throat, causing the man’s head to snap back at a ridiculous angle. The dying man gurgled, clutched the air a couple of times, and fell backward, leaving the sticky knife in Tony’s hand.

There was a sharp intake of breath behind him. It was Vaslov. “Mother of God, what have you done?”

Tony wiped the knife on some leaves. “Killed a fucking Commie, what the hell’s it look like? And what the hell was I supposed to have done? He was close enough to kiss me, for Christ’s sake.”

Despite his brave words, Tony was shaking so badly he could hardly sheathe the knife. This Russian was the first man he had ever killed close up. Any others had occurred while firing a tank’s machine gun, and the effect was often unknown. This was too personal and he wanted to vomit from the stink of the blood that was beginning to coagulate at his feet.

Vaslov looked closely at the dead Russian’s throat. “What a nasty wound. You are good, Tony. And thank God you didn’t use your rifle, the sound might have attracted too much attention.”

Tony took a deep breath and got some control of himself. Had he gone for his Garand, he would be dead. “Thanks. Now don’t you think we should get the hell out of here? This asshole surely had friends who are gonna miss him.”

Vaslov smiled. “Very likely.” He gestured to a couple of the others, who came and saw the sight and nodded appreciatively at Tony’s handiwork. Counting Tony, there were now ten in the growing little group. One of them picked up the Russian’s submachine gun and his pistol, along with spare ammunition.

“Help me remove his clothes,” Vaslov asked.

“What the hell for?” Tony snarled. “I ain’t undressing no corpse.”

“Tony,” Vaslov chuckled, “perhaps this uniform, which might just fit one of us, could prove useful. See this symbol on his collar?” Tony looked and nodded. It was a vertical sword within an oval wreath. In the fading light he thought the background might have been blue with a red trim.

“Yeah. Kinda pretty.”

Vaslov chuckled. “Better than pretty, Tony, this man was an officer in the NKVD, the Russian secret police. Someone wearing this uniform is likely to be treated as a god by an ordinary Russian officer. He could go anyplace and do almost anything. He would be an object of fear. This could be most useful to us.”

Tony understood. “Okay, but we got a lotta blood to clean off, though, before he could go to any party.”

Vaslov gestured, and several pairs of hands rapidly stripped the body, which soon lay shockingly pale and naked. There were a number of ponds nearby, and they selected one and, after tying and weighing down the body, slid it quietly under the water.

“There,” smiled Vaslov, “in a few days no one will recognize him, not even his mother. If he had one.”

Tony agreed. Even if the man was noted as missing, they had seen and avoided a lot of people who might also be missing from some army or other. And if the man’s body was later found, it would soon be bloated and unidentifiable.

“So,” Tony said, “we can now be a Russian secret police officer anytime we wish. But do we have anyone who speaks enough Russian?”

Vaslov almost purred. “Remember, I speak it fluently. It will be a joy to use it to help in their destruction.”