Red Inferno

CHAPTER 22

Wolfgang von Schumann eyed the scruffy-looking group of American GIs carrying supplies from the depot up to their units. More and more, he thought, the Yanks were beginning to look like nothing more than a bunch of pirates. Perhaps it was the beards, which were totally out of character. Americans were supposed to be clean-shaven and boyish. These men looked like genial thugs. Then there was the question of their uniforms. Despite the fact that resupply efforts had picked up, many were in rags and tatters, and sometimes wore a miscellany of civilian clothing and liberated German uniforms when necessary or simply convenient. Uniforms in June had a lower shipping priority than food, medicine, and weapons.

Even when there was a choice, the young Americans had shown a marked preference for German equipment to replace theirs that had worn out or to enhance what they already had. While they had not started wearing German helmets, they had no qualms about using German submachine guns, machine guns, pistols, and antitank weapons. The discovery of the Nazi weapons cache in Potsdam had given the American warriors a chance to shop and they had taken advantage of it. Antitank panzerfausts were now a part of every unit’s arsenal, and the enlisted American infantry had started carrying sidearms along with the officers. Von Schumann had never been able to see the reason behind the rule that prohibited enlisted men from carrying pistols. Give them every advantage they could, he thought, even if it was only psychological, as he thought pistols were relatively useless in modern warfare.

The advantages of the German antitank weapons were far more than psychological. The American tank-killer weapons were deplorable. Neither the bazookas nor the towed antitank guns could penetrate the armor of a T34. Thank God he had convinced General Miller to use the Nazi 88 mm antiaircraft guns, which could double as extremely effective antitank weapons. Rommel had figured that out in North Africa and nearly destroyed the British armor in the process.

Having come late to the ground war, the Yanks had not had to face the wrath of either the German Panthers or the Luftwaffe when they were at full strength. Now they had to deal with the Russians, who had largely destroyed both the Panzers and the Luftwaffe. It was not a healthy situation, and the Americans were paying for it with the blood of their young men.

Von Schumann snapped to attention as General Miller emerged from his command bunker with Captain Leland. The look in Leland’s eyes told von Schumann that he was still having a hard time getting used to Germans being on his side. Did he think von Schumann felt all that comfortable saluting an American?

“Herr General, good morning,” he said to Miller, and he nodded to Leland, who nodded back. “May I talk to you about supplies for a moment?”

“Let me guess,” said Miller, “you’d like some more for your people.”

“If it is possible, yes. Even though most of the population of Potsdam fled before your arrival, there are still several thousand civilians in the perimeter and, while we are grateful for your generosity, many are still hungry.”

Leland responded. “Thanks to the brave men of the Eighth Air Force, Oberst, we are only now beginning to reach what we consider minimum food standards. I think it is premature to increase rations, particularly for civilians, until we have a reserve to fall back on in case the Russians sever that lifeline again.”

Von Schumann agreed with Leland and took Miller’s silence to indicate that he agreed as well. It was what he had expected, but he felt he had to ask. As yet there was no real hunger problem among the civilians, but they were very definitely on the edge of it. The two Americans started to walk away and von Schumann fell in step with them.

The reintroduction of the airlift had come as a surprise to the men, although Miller had been informed that something of the sort would be attempted. Someone at Bradley’s HQ had brilliantly decided that a B-17 could carry several tons of supplies instead of bombs and had reconfigured a number of them for that purpose. For a couple of weeks now, thirty or forty of the Flying Fortresses would fly overhead and hundreds of packages of supplies would be parachuted down. The bombers were protected by hordes of fighters as well as their own guns, and the Red air forces nearby had apparently decided they had better things to do than attack bombers that weren’t bombing anything. The flights were also erratically timed to keep the Reds from setting up an ambush.

Along with rations, medical equipment, ammunition, and replacement weapons, they had also dropped mail and other items of a personal nature to the besieged army. The result had been a surge in morale as the soldiers realized that they were not forgotten and alone. Everyone knew that any major Russian effort could stop the supplies, or the American armies could be pushed too far west for the effort to take place, but for now they were a godsend.

Miller paused and turned. “By the way, I caught hell when Simpson and Bradley told Ike I was using your men.”

“Does this mean we must cease?” Von Schumann sincerely hoped not. The Germans fully understood the weapons while the Yanks, willing learners, did not have the experience. Besides, using his soldiers would free Americans for other tasks.

“Naw. I was told that it was my responsibility, a command decision on my part, although I would have to answer for it at another time. I told them I sincerely hoped they would get my ass out of here so I could be called on the carpet for it, and that sort of shut them up. Just their way of admitting there’s nothing they can do to stop me. I think they agreed with me, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see Ike do something like it with the rest of the army.”

“Good.” Von Schumann meant it sincerely. Anything to defeat the Russians.

“But more food, Oberst? That, I’m afraid, will have to wait like Leland says. We have to build up a stockpile and hide it from possible harm.”

Again, von Schumann had to agree with the assessment. In the two months since they’d been trapped in Potsdam, he had been awed by the manner in which the Americans had dug and tunneled their way throughout the perimeter until it was a veritable honeycomb of underground passages. Other than the psychological need for sunshine, there was no need for them to be standing around outside right now.

There were now three lines of interconnected defenses, all supported by antitank guns, dug-in tanks, and tank destroyers, and protected artillery. Every possible target outside the perimeter had been calculated and mathematically zeroed in on. Sometimes the zeroing had been done with live ammo when the Reds gave them something to shoot at. Potsdam had truly become a citadel.

The American engineers had excavated large underground rooms for storage and for living. Although they were heavily reinforced, von Schumann had doubts whether some of them could stand up to repeated hits by Russian big guns.

All they could do was hold on and hope the Americans won the war. It was so frustrating knowing that events were so totally out of one’s control. Whether they were ultimately liberated, killed, or became prisoners depended on events taking place far to their west.

“General, one other thing. That correspondent wants to do a story on me. Do you think that is wise?”

Miller chuckled. “No, Oberst. Not at this time. Tell him to leave you alone. But I will have to give the little bastard credit for thinking about it. I may just solve the problem by having him shot and dropped into the Havel like I thought about doing when we caught the guy who was printing up the Commie literature.”

Even the dour Leland smiled at that. The Communist sympathizer with the mimeograph machine they’d caught had turned out to be a boy of fourteen. He’d been turned over to von Schumann, who had slapped him around until he cried and then convinced him he was lucky not to be shot. He was now working in the hospital dealing with people who’d been brutalized by the Red Army, and perhaps gaining a new perspective on life.

The correspondent, Walter Ames from Los Angeles, had successfully flown a two-seat Piper Cub all the way in from Hanover. He had stayed at treetop height to make himself invisible to the Russian planes as well as to fly over any trigger-happy infantry before they could aim and fire. With incredible panache, he’d had to land in Russian-occupied territory to refuel from five-gallon cans he’d carried on board his tiny craft. He’d also saved enough fuel to fly himself back. Or so he hoped. Much depended on where the American armies might be when he decided to leave.

Ames had also brought his own shortwave radio and generator, which he used to file his stories. This had necessitated the use of an American officer to function as his censor to ensure that he didn’t divulge anything important. As befitted the risks he had taken to get to Potsdam, Ames was pushy and aggressive.

Miller, however, could not argue with yet another leap in morale brought on by the presence of the reporter. He’d gone from unit to unit and taken down names and relayed information by radio about the soldiers to their loved ones. He was particularly insistent that the wounded be the first to send messages back home that they were okay, and Miller had quickly concurred. When the fighting first started, the wounded’s next of kin had received only a telegram stating that their loved one was wounded in action. Normally, this would have been followed up by further information, or even a letter or phone call from the soldier as he was evacuated to the rear. Because they were cut off this hadn’t happened, and Miller totally sympathized with the frustrations that the families must be feeling.

But now was not the time to let Ames tell the world that an ex-Nazi held a position of authority and influence in Potsdam.

“Leland,” Miller said, “I’ve changed my mind. Let Ames live for a few more days. Just keep him out of my hair.”

The move of Shaef’s field headquarters from Reims to nearby Compiegne had been necessitated by the fact that the Russians had located the first site and launched several very strong bombing attacks against it. When these had been beaten off, the Reds then tried sending in single planes, hoping they could sneak through and kill some Allied leaders. When one lone plane succeeded and a bomb fell on a mess hall and killed more than fifty men, wounding many others, including several generals, it was decided to move to a safer location.

Burke parked his jeep and immediately noticed the tension and bustle. There had always been a sense of urgency in the headquarters but this was different. Something had happened, and the tone of voices and the sense of grim urgency said it wasn’t good. He knew better than to approach Beetle Smith in a time of crisis, but he did want information as to what was happening.

Luck was with him as he recognized the disfigured British officer, Major Charles Godwin. He walked up to the man and grabbed his arm.

“Charles, what on earth’s going on? Everyone seems in such a panic.”

Godwin’s scarlike mouth opened in a smile. “Nothing so important as to make one do away with politeness. Now, how have you been? Met any interesting Russians lately?”

Burke shook his head in disbelief. “As a matter of fact I’ve been away for several days checking prisoners, and returned to find SHAEF moved and the new place in an uproar. The Russian POWs had nothing new to add.”

“Nothing?”

“Well, they did complain about supply shortages and they definitely feel the Russian air force has let them down, but nothing new of a political nature. The Reds still seem to be hoarding most of their elite soldiers for future battles.”

“Ah,” said Godwin, “not so much anymore.”

Burke felt a twinge of dread. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean and why I am here is because the Russians have gone and right royally buggered Montgomery. Were you familiar with the tactical situation regarding the British Army?”

“A little,” Burke admitted. “I know they are to the north of us.”

“Well, they still are, only not quite as many of us as before. As we were still holding on to Hamburg, British lines were rather extended and there were some calls from Ike to Monty that he should give up Hamburg before he got outflanked. At any rate, Monty declined and the Russians hit the point where your army connected with ours and rammed its way in between. It was a typical Russian attack. They swarmed and probed until they found a weak point, and then they blasted their way through. The Reds are now racing toward Bremen, and eight British divisions have been cut off and are retreating into German-held Holstein while your army pulls back to the south. Hamburg, of course, is belatedly being abandoned and Montgomery is having a snit, complaining about being abandoned by Ike.”

“Is it as bad as it sounds?”

“Perhaps worse. There are almost a hundred thousand British soldiers in jeopardy. We estimate that Rokossovsky, the Russian commander, has at least half a million against us. Thus, there is no chance that we will be able to go on the offensive and rescue them. Our soldiers will have to continue to retreat north through Doenitz’s rump republic of Germany.”

“Good.”

“Ah, Steven, but it will remind everyone of the possibility of another Dunkirk. As you are well aware, there is a large antiwar movement in Britain, and this will fuel their fire. It may even cost Churchill his job.”

“Unbelievable how much trouble you’ve gotten into while I was gone.”

“Ike, however, is pushing for a second alternative. He wants the British to link up with the Germans and fight alongside each other instead of contemplating a humiliating withdrawal while our ex-enemies cover our backsides. It is causing an absolute uproar in London.”

Godwin smiled wickedly. “On the other hand, perhaps we’ll get lucky and Montgomery will be relieved of his command.”

Burke was shocked. He had known that Montgomery was not held in high esteem by the American command, but was Godwin speaking heresy about the hero of El Alamein?

“Charles, I thought he was your best general?”

“Then God save Britain. No, Monty is an adequate general who can perform well when he is given time to plan an act accordingly. When he has to create, he fails. He won at El Alamein because he had two months to plan the battle and he outnumbered and outgunned Rommel. He failed at Arnhem because it was too ambitious and novel, and he made it work too slowly. Personally, I thought it ludicrous that he wanted to be the overall ground commander and lead a narrow-front drive to Berlin. It would have been disastrous.” He smiled his ghastly smile. “I will never admit such heresy in public, of course.

“And when I said Monty was in a bit of a snit, I said so with typical and elegant British understatement. The shock of the Russian attack has brought him to a state of near hysteria and collapse. He is scarcely able to function, and General Crerar, another second-rate intellect who doesn’t get along with Monty, is in effective control of Monty’s 21st Army Group, which now includes the First Canadian Army and what’s left of the British Second Army. If he doesn’t get control of himself, Monty may be evacuated to England.”

Burke was stunned. Yet another reversal for the Allies, who had been in almost continuous retreat since the first week of May. It was now the end of June and it looked like the Allied defensive lines were beginning to crumble. He knew few Englishmen, but if the typical soldier was anything like Charles Godwin, he must be a truly formidable fighting man, and the British, too, were giving ground.

“What happened to the idea that the Reds were too low on fuel for an attack against Montgomery?” Burke asked.

Godwin laughed. “It appears there was sufficient for Rokossovsky to knock my beloved England out of the war with his sudden and unexpected attack.”

“What shall we do?” Burke asked.

“Well, since both of us are too unimportant to be involved in anything significant at this point, let us go and renew our acquaintance. I believe it is your turn to provide refreshments.”

Burke chuckled. Perhaps it wasn’t the end of the world after all. “I managed to salvage some cognac on my travels. Had I not taken it, it might have fallen into evil and irresponsible hands. Will it be adequate?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Steven, although I will beg if I have to. Cognac sounds marvelous. Lead on, Colonel Burke, and I do hope it is a large bottle.”

Tony lay on his belly in the tall grass and peered through his binoculars at their intended target. Joe Baker, the OSS man, was beside him with Vaslov and Anton waiting farther away at their camp.

“What do you think?” Baker asked.

Any sort of request for an opinion from Baker pleased Tony. The man obviously knew a lot about how to wage war on a small scale, and usually the shoe was on the other foot with Tony asking the questions. He also thought Joe was testing him. Tony refocused the binoculars. It was only one tanker truck, but it wasn’t very well guarded. One sentry outside and one in the cab who looked asleep. The outside sentry didn’t appear to be paying much attention to the world and stopped every now and then to take an unsteady sip from his canteen. Tony chuckled. It sure as hell wasn’t water.

Tony looked around at the deepening shadows. It was getting darker with every moment. “Let’s go get it,” he said.

“Look again, Tony.”

“At what?” Tony was chagrined. He had missed something important and Joe was now going to tell him exactly what it was. He hated this part of their relationship, but it was making him a better soldier.

“Look at the tires on the truck. What kind of shape are they in?”

“They look fine to me, nice and round.”

“That’s right, nice and round and full of air. If that tanker was full of fuel, don’t you think it would flatten out the tires just a little bit?”

“Shit, Joe, that fucker’s empty.”

“That’s right, and this place is a trap.”

Tony swore silently. It had been his fault that the sentry had gotten away the other night. He could have sworn the man was dead. After all, his throat had been cut and he was bleeding like a pig the last time Tony saw him. Joe had sliced him, but it was Tony’s job to make sure that the man was dead and he had failed. There should have been two corpses in the burning cab that night, not just one. Now it looked like the Russians were on to them.

“Sorry, Joe.”

“Don’t worry. It was only a matter of time before they did something like this. Look, we still don’t know if the guy died and told them about the uniform. All that’s certain is that the Russians are getting tired of us blowing up their tanker trucks. That was bound to happen.”

The comment made Tony feel a little better. “So what do we do now?”

“Follow me.”

Tony did as directed and the two men circled around the truck, always maintaining their distance from it. They quickly found three places where a full squad of Russians soldiers lay in wait. “Too dangerous,” Baker said in understatement, and Tony heartily concurred.

It was now very dark and they had no difficulty exiting the area without being seen. “Well, what the hell do we do now?” Tony asked.

“Are you up for some adventure?”

What the hell have we been doing? he wanted to ask. “Sure.”

It turned out that Joe Baker’s idea of adventure consisted of prowling through the Russian encampments and looking for targets of opportunity. With a dozen men waiting to ambush them at the truck, he concluded that the security might be lax elsewhere. He was right.

As on the first night they had met, they located several small motor pools and truck parks and this night they entered them stealthily. Unwilling to risk an explosion, they satisfied themselves by pouring dirt in the gas tanks. Tony killed a Russian who, apparently drunk, had wandered into a grove of trees, while Joe sliced the throats of two men who had fallen asleep too far from their comrades.

As Tony wiped the blood from his knife, it occurred to him that he was a far different animal than had lived in New Jersey. At first, he found that taking a life was awful. Now it was awful because it was so damned easy. He wanted to talk to someone, a priest, for instance. His big brother Sal was a priest. When he got back home he would have to talk to him and find out whether he was committing some sort of sin. In the meantime, killing Reds helped provide a slim chance that he would get home to go to Confession.

If he didn’t stop thinking about home and stuff and stay alert, he reminded himself, he might not make it away from these Russians, much less home. Neither man had any doubt regarding their fate if the Russians should capture them. A quick death would be fortunate.

It was the middle of the night before they called a halt and returned to where Vaslov and Anton waited. They quickly packed their gear, buried the uniform, and commenced to move. It was also time to get a long way from the Russians. Whoever had set the ambush at the truck would be very angry and just likely to start a manhunting sweep that would uncover them. Vaslov and Anton had told them just how ruthless the Russians could be when dealing with partisans or irregulars. Anyone they caught who might be a suspect, they would simply execute and hope they got the right person in the crowd of deaths. He realized their actions might cause innocent men to suffer if the Russians did start sweeping up people, but he couldn’t help that. He had a war to fight and war was hell.

They would lie low and rest for a couple of days and start the process all over again.

“Hey, Joe. Fourth of July’s comin’ up soon, ain’t it?”

“Yeah?”

“What’ya say we set up for some special fireworks.”

Joe laughed. “That, my friend, sounds like a marvelous idea.”

Tony could have purred. Joe Baker had just called him his friend.