Red Inferno

CHAPTER 5

The meeting in the Oval Office convened just before dawn. Truman looked alert and fresh while Stettinius and Stimson looked tired and disheveled. Marshall, of course, looked impeccable although working hard to hide his fatigue. The previous night had been long. Burke, standing behind the general, had managed to find a clean uniform and looked reasonably presentable.

Truman looked around, glared, and began. “All right, who is this source and just how good is he? I find it rather incredible that what General Marshall describes as a mid-level functionary at the Soviet embassy would even have access to such inflammatory information as this. I also find it dubious that any other Russian in the United States would have it either.”

If Marshall was insulted by the implied rebuke, he didn’t show it. “The question’s a plausible one, Mr. President, and I’ve been trying to find that out as well. First, I would prefer not to divulge the Russian’s name. The more who know it, the more likely the fact of his treason will get back to his masters. That’s not to imply that anyone in this room can’t be trusted, but I believe his name is irrelevant. He is, however, one of a number of field-grade Russian officers stationed at the embassy. I have been able to confirm that he has, in the past, provided our intelligence people with little nuggets of information that would indicate he is not in love with his Communist leaders.”

“For money?” asked Truman.

“Yes.”

The president grabbed on to that line of thought. “Then the man could be doing this totally for reward. He could be lying through his teeth and there’s nothing we could do about it once he’s been paid.”

Marshall answered. “He knows the rules. He hasn’t been paid for this, and won’t be unless it is proven correct. He also hasn’t asked for anything.” Truman grudgingly nodded his appreciation of the fact.

“Yet,” said Truman, “he contacted your people and this colonel of yours was unexpectedly given the message. How did this come to pass?”

Burke was standing along the wall and felt a number of eyes on him. Some of the most important men in the United States were looking at him. He tried to appear stoic. He made it a point to memorize everyone and everything in the room along with what was being said. He could hardly wait to tell Natalie.

Marshall thought briefly of the grief that so often comes to the best-laid plans of men. “Sir, I found out that the Russian had contacted one of our intelligence people by telephone, probably a pay phone, and said he had information to give. In response, the Russian was told that an officer he knew would be at the embassy reception that night, and that the Russian should pass on whatever he had to that officer. At that time we had no idea of the contents of the message, or any indication from our source that it was so explosive. Our Russian played his cards very close.”

Truman laughed harshly, shook his head in disbelief, and glanced at Burke. “So when this Colonel Burke showed up, he was presumed to be the contact since your source knew him slightly.”

“Correct,” said Marshall. “The American officer originally designated to be the contact was delayed by car trouble. I have commended Colonel Burke for coming directly to me.”

The general added that the Russians had chased Burke and tried to kill him. Truman smiled tightly and looked at Burke with new respect.

Marshall continued. “Had Colonel Burke attempted to go through channels, it could have been many, many hours before I received it.”

If at all, he did not bother to add. Someone in the chain of command might have decided it was too preposterous to believe.

“But why?” Truman persisted. “How would this Russian creature even know of these plans and, again, why would anyone in their embassy be aware?”

Marshall answered. “It is just possible that they would, sir. Ambassador Gromyko is still in town and would have been advised that this attack on our force was going to occur, if for no other reason than to save him the confusion and embarrassment of being confronted by us after the attack took place. In hindsight I think it is significant that no senior Soviet embassy people were at that reception. They were probably lying low and out of sight just so they couldn’t give anything away.”

Truman turned to Marshall. “Then what have you done, General, to save our boys if this ungodly threat is true?”

Again, Marshall ignored any implications of insult. Truman’s bluntness was already well known. He thought of reminding Truman that the men were in this pickle because the president had ordered it. The look of concern on Truman’s face told everyone that the president already knew it.

“Sir, I have contacted General Eisenhower by phone and given him a previously agreed-upon code to cover this contingency. He will be contacting Bradley and Simpson and they will be taking the appropriate precautions. That is, those that can be taken under the circumstances. Regardless of what we do, we can only minimize the effect of any Russian attack. Sir, those boys are really out on their own.”

“General, what do you mean by ‘appropriate,’ and why didn’t you spell things out for Ike?”

“Sir, specific decisions should be made by the man at the scene, and that is Eisenhower. As to appropriate, I must remind you that we have not yet been attacked and no one has come forth to verify absolutely that this message is real. And, even if it is, there is nothing to stop the Reds from calling off their dogs at the last moment. General Eisenhower will order the column to halt, form into a defensive posture, which itself might forestall a Red attack, and we will do nothing to precipitate combat with them. If the Russians want to start a war, it is imperative that they are indeed the aggressors and not us.”

Truman seemed mollified. “You are right, of course. I just don’t want another Pearl Harbor.”

Nor did Marshall. He still churned inside whenever he thought of the time lost in warning the Pacific Fleet a little less than four years ago.

“Then what are their real intentions?” Truman asked the room, dismay evident on his face. “Do they really want war with us?” He stared at Burke. “You’re the one who got the message, and Marshall seems to be impressed with you. What are your thoughts, Colonel?

Burke was having difficulty breathing. The atmosphere had just gotten rarefied. “Presuming the warning is true, sir, an attack will be their version of a shot across the bow, a potentially very bloody and stern message, if you will, that we are to stay away. Very simply, sir, a paranoid Stalin does not believe our communications with them. He believes his own fears, and what’s being printed in some of our newspapers about the motives behind our drive on Berlin supports that.”

American and British newspapers had cheered the thought of American troops heading toward Berlin and getting there ahead of the Russians. One had even suggested that Hitler be held as a prisoner at Sing Sing.

Truman nodded sadly and cupped his chin in his hands. The enormity of his decision to send troops was weighing heavily. “But we cannot let our boys be slaughtered. If attacked they will fight back and we will try to save them, won’t we, General?”

Marshall’s face was set even more firmly then usual. “Yes, sir,” he said slowly.

Major General Christopher J. Miller sucked on his pipe and exhaled a small cloud of smoke from his dwindling supply of Virginia tobacco. It was this virtually continuous act that had given him his nickname of “Puff” early on in his military career. He had hated it, as he felt it made him seem soft. Now it no longer bothered him, and anyone who dealt with him knew that while he was polite, considerate, and even gracious, he was far from soft. He had to admit, though, that the additional pounds he had recently added to his five-foot-six-inch frame were also making him look just a little puffy.

Miller tapped his pipe against the heel of his boot and knocked out a clot of ashes as he watched a column of vehicles arrange themselves along the highway a few yards away. They were no longer advancing.

Now, only a few miles from their goal of Berlin, General Miller was not a very happy man as he contemplated the two messages he’d received. The first was an administrative one. The move on Berlin had been thrown together so quickly that there had been no time to name it. The two divisions had each belonged to two different corps and their being together was a marriage of military necessity. Thus, instead of creating a new corps, they had initially named the group Miller Force and now it was confirmed. It was unusual for a group that size to be named after an individual, but it indicated the temporary nature of the situation.

Miller supposed he should have been flattered. For an intoxicating moment, he had allowed himself to visualize the headline “Miller Force Takes Berlin.” For a career that had been undistinguished for almost thirty years since his graduation from Texas A amp;M, it would have been a crowning achievement and a fitting end. At the war’s beginning, he had been an overage major with little hope of promotion. For a moment he allowed his imagination to run wild and he visualized another headline: “Miller Captures Hitler.” Damn it all, his family would have been so proud.

Then he got the second message.

It had come moments later and directly from Omar Bradley, bypassing Simpson. It said the Russians might attack him and he should circle the wagons and prepare to fight a defensive battle. But how the hell did he do that? The two divisions were strung out for a score or more miles and were vulnerable at a number of places. He was prepared for an attempt by the Germans to cut the column, but Russian military capabilities were far different and much stronger than the collapsing Germans. Additionally, the message said he should not start anything. If the Russians wanted a fight, they were going to be allowed to get in the first punch. It didn’t seem fair, but he had his orders.

Miller heard a buzzing sound overhead and saw yet another Russian airplane flying parallel to the column. It was a Stormovik, a heavily armored tank killer designed for ground support. He couldn’t fire at it since it hadn’t done anything yet. Nobody had. It was simply watching. So too were American planes, and they had reported heavy concentrations of Soviet armor moving toward him. What the Air Corps couldn’t tell him was their intentions.

What the air force also couldn’t promise him was continuous cover. The speed of the American advance meant that airstrips were well behind the lead tanks of Miller Force. Without drop tanks, American planes would not be able to linger long over his men. He was beginning to feel naked and he didn’t like it at all.

Puff Miller had done what he could. He had ordered the column to halt and ordered each of his units to assume whatever defensive formation was logical under the strung-out circumstances. It seemed likely that any defensive alignments were going to be highly fragmented and rarely more than company or battalion strength, if that.

Miller turned to his radio operator. “Did anyone make contact with Colonel Brentwood?” The radioman, busy with his dials and switches, nodded affirmative.

Brentwood had the point of the column. His tanks and vehicles were closer to Berlin than anyone else, and that concerned Miller. Actually, Brentwood concerned Miller. He was a fire-breather who thought Patton was the new messiah and attack was the only way to wage war. Even though he had yet seen little or no combat, Brentwood was consumed with the urge to be the first American in Berlin and had volunteered for the point position. Miller had acquiesced and now wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake.

Miller had heard the jokes that Brentwood wanted to run for Congress after the war. Under other circumstances, Brentwood would have been an ideal leader for the column. Now, however, things had changed. Yesterday they needed someone with a little daring. Today they needed utmost caution, and that was not Colonel Thomas Brentwood. However, his unit now led Miller Force and his tanks were rumbling toward Berlin.

“Son, does he understand he is to stop immediately?”

“Yes, sir. He was given your order in clear terms.”

“I assume you did not actually speak to him.”

“No, sir, but I did spell it out in no uncertain terms to his radio operator.”

Miller wasn’t confident. “Son, get him on the line directly.”

A few moments later, the radio operator said he couldn’t make contact, and Miller felt a chill going up his spine.

Miller nodded and walked a few steps away from his command vehicle. To his rear was the river, the Havel. To his right was the small, ruined, and nearly abandoned city of Potsdam. To his front he could see the rolling clouds of smoke in the distance that marked the dying of the Third Reich in Berlin. He wondered which curl of smoke might be Hitler. Serve the bastard right if he toasted, Miller thought.

In front of him was the autobahn and it was choked with American trucks and tanks. Groups of civilians, refugees from Berlin, trudged slowly on the grass alongside the road. All they wanted to do was get away from the war. Miller wondered what they would do if they knew they might be moving right back into it.

He looked up again. A couple more Stormoviks had appeared above the column. Why did they remind him of vultures gathering over a kill? Would they recognize the change in the American stance? If they did, would it make a bit of difference?

And what the hell was Brentwood doing?

Tony “ The Toad ” Totelli was nervous. One of the advantages of being in the command tank with the ambitious Colonel Brentwood was the fact that he could overhear all the communications that the colonel sent and received. Tony had heard the order to halt and then heard Brentwood mutter and swear that it was the stupidest piece-of-shit order he had ever received. Brentwood said they were within spitting distance of Berlin. Hell, for all Tony knew they might actually be in the damned city.

Certainly, they were on the outskirts of the German capital. The wooded and semi-built-up nature of the area was changing and there were more and more buildings and homes. Also, he could see an open area that the colonel had assured himself was the beginning of Gatow Airport.

“Sir, do you want me to stop?” Tony asked hopefully.

“Not yet,” the colonel muttered. Tony could barely hear him over the rumble of the Sherman’s engine. He sighed and kept the tank slowly moving forward. Tony was a good driver and that was one of the reasons the colonel had selected him. While Tony’s squat and dark physical appearance accounted for his nickname, his short size made him ideal for a tank with a full colonel jammed in along with additional communications equipment on top of its normal crew. Tony just didn’t take up much room.

Tony wished he was back home in New Jersey, where the vehicles he had driven were expensive cars. Unfortunately, those cars always belonged to someone else, and the owners had objected to Tony’s taking them and selling them, which was why he found himself in the army four years ago at the age of eighteen. The judge had given him a choice: enlist or go to jail. To compound Tony’s problem, Pearl Harbor had occurred while he was finishing basic training. Over the years, Tony had seen the good and the bad of army life, and it seemed to him that this little foray of Brentwood’s seemed downright silly, even dangerous, under the circumstances.

In Tony’s opinion, the colonel was disobeying orders from higher up. He had heard Brentwood explain on the radio, to some captain in the group, that all he was going to do was make sure the area was safe before halting, but everyone knew that was just an excuse for continuing on. Orders or not, Brentwood was going into Berlin if only a few feet, and he’d take his chances on getting his ass chewed later. In another of Tony’s opinions, Brentwood doubtless thought that a shot at glory would far outweigh any risk of disciplinary action. Brentwood wanted to run for Congress after the war, and being the first American in Berlin would be a good way to start. There had been no further radio contact for several minutes and Tony had the damndest feeling that Brentwood had disabled the radio.

Tony was driving with the hatch open and his head and shoulders outside. This gave him an excellent view forward, although he could not see the eleven other tanks behind or the twenty lightly armored half-tracks that, full of infantry, followed the tanks. The area had been quiet and he was not particularly concerned about snipers.

“Hey, Toad.” It was Ernie the gunner. “What do you see?”

“Eva Braun dancing naked and calling out for you to fuck her,” Tony responded. If Ernie wanted to see what was in front, all he had to do was open the turret hatch and look. Fortunately for Tony, Brentwood usually ignored such idle banter between his crew. Brentwood was not totally stupid and knew it helped keep them sane.

The tank moved around a charred building, and there was a great deal of open space before it. In the distance, Tony could see a number of shapes and he stopped the tank abruptly, causing everyone to lurch forward and swear. “Tanks!” he yelled.

“Jesus,” Brentwood said. “How many do you make, Corporal?”

Tony started counting and also started shaking. “I see thirty but there may be more coming through the dust.”

“Where the hell did the Germans get them?” Brentwood muttered. There was a degree of silence as the rest of the column had halted behind Tony’s lead tank.

“Sir,” Tony said, an unsettling fear filling him. “They aren’t German. Those are Russians. That silhouette belongs to a T34.”

“Bullshit,” the colonel said. “The Reds can’t be this far west. Those are German Panthers, not T34s. They just look a lot alike.”

Tony admitted that possibility. Their silhouettes were very similar from a distance. A spotter plane radioed that a large number of tanks was headed toward them, but didn’t specify nationality.

Brentwood prudently ordered them to take up defensive positions. What had started out as a public relations stunt now had the potential to be a disaster.

Tony was shaking. This had all the earmarks of a bloody mistake. “Sir, I still think those are Commies.”

Brentwood was puzzled. The dust kicked up by the approaching tanks obscured any insignia. “We can’t take chances. They have to be German. We’ll treat them as if they are the enemy.”

And even if they are, we’re in deep shit, Tony thought. Even though many of the American Sherman tanks had been improved with a higher-velocity main gun, they still didn’t stand a chance against a Panther. Or a T34 for that matter.

The unknown tanks were in range. Tony saw a flash of light. Was it gunfire? Were the other tanks shooting at them?

“Goddamn Germans are shooting at us,” Brentwood yelled.

“I still think they’re Russians, Colonel,” Tony said.

“Then why the hell are they shooting at us and why the hell are you arguing with me?”

Tony winced. He had gone too far. Now there would be no reasoning with the colonel.

“Open fire,” Brentwood ordered, and a dozen American guns blasted. At long range, only a couple of enemy tanks were hit and they weren’t damaged.

At that moment, the spotter plane’s pilot confirmed that the tanks were Russians and might be shooting at a German position. Brentwood paled and Tony declined to say I told you so.

Brentwood grabbed him by the shoulder. “Toad, get the hell out there with a flag while I contact division.”

Though reluctant to leave the relative security of the tank’s armored womb, Tony clambered out onto the ground and pulled out the bag that contained a good-sized American flag and a collapsible pole. Many of these had been distributed so they could identify themselves visually should the need arise. Tony thought the need was now absolutely imperative and scrambled to connect it to the pole. He looked around and saw crewmen from a number of American tanks and half-tracks doing the same thing. There was a decent breeze and the flags unfurled themselves so that even a blind Russian could see them.

The Russian tanks continued to close on them and he could now see they had infantry trotting alongside. He counted more than the thirty tanks he first saw and many more were still coming into view, and they were definitely within range. Why hadn’t they shot at them? Were they concerned about killing Americans? Christ, he hoped so.

Suddenly, the Russian tanks opened fire. Dozens of guns barked, their sound barely preceding the stunning concussion of their shells impacting around him.

Tony clambered onto the hull as the tank began to back up. He could hear Brentwood screaming into the radio that he was being attacked by Russians. Tony was just about to climb down the hatch into his tank when the shock of a near miss threw him to the ground and rolled him away from his Sherman. He tried to rise again, but his tank took a hit. It lifted off the ground, then settled with a crash. For a moment he thought he was dead. He wasn’t, but his tank had been killed. It was burning furiously and the intense heat drove him back. The turret hatch opened and a living torch tried to crawl out. Tony watched in horror as the blackened, burning thing with no face moved a little, twitched, and stopped halfway out. Tony thought it was Ernie, but he couldn’t be sure. Asshole Brentwood was doubtless still cooking inside the tank.

He gagged from the sight and the stench of burning flesh. He crawled farther away from the Sherman and then looked around. A half-dozen other American tanks were also in flames, as were a couple of half-tracks. The sound of ammunition exploding inside the Shermans told him he was ungodly fortunate to be alive. The remainder of the American vehicles were running away from the one-sided battle as quickly as they could. He looked at the rapidly closing Reds and didn’t see any of their tanks on fire or stopped.

There were some other Americans lying on the ground around him. Most of them were quite still and only a couple were moving their arms or trying to rise. Tony checked himself and realized that he was basically unhurt. Bruises and cuts didn’t count in a disaster like this.

He looked at the Russian tanks. They were advancing faster toward him than he could ever think of running. They were outstripping their own infantry, which was rapidly being left behind. He whimpered without realizing it and settled himself to wait for whatever the Russians might do.

The sound of airplane engines from behind him caused him to look up quickly as a pair of American P-47 fighter-bombers roared only a few feet overhead. Their machine guns chewed through the Russian infantry but did no harm to the tanks. The fighters banked sharply and began strafing the rear of the Russian tanks and firing their five-inch rockets. This time the Russian tanks suffered. Less heavily armored in the top and rear, several of them took hits and exploded.

“Kill the bastards!” Tony yelled.

In a moment, however, the two planes were out of rockets and ammunition. He watched sadly as they flew off, leaving the field to the Russians. For a second time, he sat and waited for the inevitable, knowing full well that the Reds would be pissed at the aerial attack and would likely take it out on potential prisoners.

Thus, he watched incredulously as the Russian column veered away from the killing ground and turned off on a mission of its own. He stood up and unconsciously dusted himself off. He was alive. Damned alone, but alive. Find a weapon, he told himself, and get the hell out of here. And oh yeah, just who the hell was the enemy, the Germans or the Russians?

He found an M1 Garand on a body from a half-track and took it along with a couple of clips of ammunition. He looked at the wounded. Only a couple were still alive and he didn’t think they would last long. Maybe the Reds would find them and care for them. There sure as hell wasn’t anything he could do.

He swore and half sobbed in frustration as he walked quickly away. Damn Brentwood and his run for glory, and damn the Russians.