Red Inferno

CHAPTER 8

Outside, the spring sun was bright and warm. This made the air inside the squad bunker stifling and hot, a foretaste of what the summer would bring.

First Sergeant Stan Krenski hunched down and entered the bunker through the low and small entrance in the rear. An angular and raw-boned man, he was not as tall as he sometimes appeared, and was only slightly taller than Logan.

“Jesus, it stinks in here,” Krenski said in mock dismay. “Doesn’t anybody shower anymore?”

Logan looked blandly at the others. He knew they were all pigs. “Why, I bathed just a little while ago. How about you guys?” The remainder of the squad assured Krenski that they had not only bathed but generously doused themselves with cologne in the last hour. It was a running gag. They all were filthy and stank to high heaven.

Krenski laughed and wiped his own dirty, sweaty brow. “Nice job,” he said admiringly as he looked around. The bunker was roofed with metal beams over which there were thick layers of sandbags and earth. The walls were similarly constructed and firing slits faced in all directions in case someone infiltrated behind them. Much of the material for this and the many other fortifications had been liberated from the nearby buildings. There was additional joking that the American army had done more damage to Potsdam than the American air force.

“Thanks,” said Logan. “Now, for God’s sake, Sarge, don’t tell us we’ve got to move someplace else. A helluva lot of work went into making this pleasure palace the beautiful creation that it is.”

Krenski took off his helmet and wiped his forehead. “Nope. I came to tell you that the captain wishes to see you, Sergeant Logan, and right away. I’ll stay here and admire how you put this place together while you and him talk.”

Logan grabbed his helmet and rifle and left the bunker for the short walk to the captain’s headquarters. Shit, he thought as he stepped outside, what the hell did Captain Dimitri want? Was he still pissed off because Lieutenant Singer got hit? Hell, that wasn’t his fault. Wasn’t anybody’s, really. Dimitri, who was usually around all the time, had been conspicuous by his absence for the last day or so. What did that mean?

Logan ducked his head as he entered Dimitri’s command bunker and took off his helmet.

Captain Dimitri was seated behind a makeshift desk made of planks. He did not look up from his papers. “Singer lost his arm, you know.”

Damn, thought Logan, he is pissed. “I’m not surprised, sir, it was pretty well gone when we got him to the aid station. I didn’t think anything short of a miracle was going to save it, and I haven’t seen many miracles lately.”

Finally, Dimitri looked up. Logan saw sadness in his face, but not anger. “Singer could have been a good officer. Now he gets to go home the first time we figure out how to get people out of here.”

“I liked him,” Logan said sincerely. “You’re right. He wanted to learn and to do the right thing.”

Logan felt a little guilty that he had not had an opportunity to visit Singer in the hospital. He made a mental note to rectify the problem. While the last few days had consisted of a lot of work, there still had been some free time during which he could have gone.

Dimitri nodded. “Sit down.” Logan pulled up a crate and complied. “But that’s not why I called for you. By the way, you stink and look like shit. Starting tomorrow we will be offering showers on a rotation basis and, with luck, you’ll be getting one about every week or so. The engineers have figured out a way to pump, strain, and somewhat purify the water from the river so we can bathe in it, but for Christ’s sake, tell your men not to swallow it or cook with it. That damn river is still stuffed full of corpses.”

“Yes, sir.”

Logan knew all about boiling the water for drinking and cooking, and had seen the swollen and rotting bodies of people and animals float slowly by. The news about showers would definitely cheer up his platoon. Maybe they could even do laundry. Maybe they could even get real food instead of rations. He never thought he would long for the dubious pleasures of a mess hall, but he did now.

Dimitri started speaking again, ending Logan’s thoughts. “For the second time in two months, your damned platoon needs an officer, and it’s highly unlikely we are going to get one from outside. I made a proposal and it went all the way up and everyone concurs. Congratulations, Jack, you are now an officer and a gentleman.”

Logan was stunned. “You’ve got to be joking, sir.”

Dimitri grinned. “I never joke. You know that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold bars of a second lieutenant. “Here, these used to be mine. Just don’t go wearing them until we get our asses out of this place. Snipers are attracted to shiny things.”

Logan took them, his mind awhirl. “But what about Sergeant Krenski. He’s the most senior NCO in the company.”

“Don’t worry about Krenski, Sergeant-I mean Lieutenant Logan-I’ve taken care of him.”

“Captain, I don’t understand. With all of Krenski’s experience, he’d be a great officer.”

“Disagree, Jack. He’s a great NCO. He’d be a shitty officer. He’s not officer material.”

Logan was puzzled. “Can I ask why? What you said almost sounds elitist, and I know you’re not that way.” Dimitri had commented several times on the fact that his parents were poor immigrants from Greece and how hard they had worked to achieve what they felt was success.

Dimitri chuckled. “I’m disappointed in you, Jack. You’ve been working with the man for months and you really don’t know a thing about him. Tell me, what’s the first thing he does when he gets a written order?”

“Uh, he usually fumbles for his reading glasses, which he can never find. He lost them a while ago, so he gives the papers to someone else to read for him.” Logan paused as the truth dawned. “Oh shit, he can’t read, can he?”

“Bingo,” said the captain. “Krenski’s thirty years old and has been in the army since he lied his way in at sixteen. He can read a little, very damn little, but he’s pretty much illiterate. That, my new lieutenant, is why he will not take over the platoon. In case you’re curious, he came to me when he thought I might promote him and told me his story. Bottom line, the man was terrified we’d make him an officer. He’ll be delighted that you got it instead, and he can stay as my senior NCO.”

Logan chuckled. “I’ll keep his secret.”

“Good, now let’s walk over to your platoon so I can formally introduce you in case they think you’re lying about the promotion.”

When the two men entered Logan’s bunker, they were surprised to find the entire platoon assembled.

“I took the liberty, Captain,” said a grinning Sergeant Krenski. “We’re gonna have a little party to celebrate, if you don’t mind, sir. Some of the guys, uh, managed to find and liberate some schnapps that might have otherwise fallen into the wrong hands. It would be an awful thing to have abused.”

In his headquarters, Major General Miller listened to the reports in icy fury. The Russians had begun shelling their positions. The barrage wasn’t all that heavy, but the unofficial truce was obviously over.

“Sir,” said Leland, “the artillery wants to fire back.”

“At what?” snapped Miller. “Do we know precisely where those shells are coming from?”

As he said that, a heavy one landed a hundred yards from where they were dug in and shook dirt from the roof. Miller was puzzled. Yes, the Reds were firing at them, but the effort seemed to be directed at nothing in particular. It was just a number of pieces of artillery lobbing shells into the perimeter without any direction or purpose at all. It didn’t make sense.

Captain Leland dusted himself off. “No, sir, we don’t really know where their batteries are. We can do some guessing and start shooting back, but God knows if we’ll hit anything.”

“Then hold fire,” Miller said. “No point in wasting ammunition and giving away the location of our own guns.” That, he thought wryly, presumed the Commies hadn’t already figured that out.

The situation was frustrating as well as puzzling. Despite the barrage, he really didn’t feel that his defenses were in any danger. Lookouts could see no troops or tanks moving up for an assault. It was as if a bunch of drunks had taken control of the Russian artillery and were having a good time.

“Any report on casualties?” Miller asked, and he was assured that all units were reporting nothing in the way of killed and only a few wounded. Of course, they all were dug in and hunkered down and only a direct hit would cause damage. He was told that a number of civilians had been killed and wounded, and he regretted not pushing them harder to dig their own shelters. The one-legged German, von Schumann, and his people were probably okay. Miller recognized the kraut as a survivor.

After a while, the firing ceased. “Now what the hell was that all about?” Miller wondered out loud.

“General,” called a sergeant with a radio headset over his ears. “We’re getting something from Ninth Army. Looks like the Nazis have just announced that Hitler is dead, committed suicide in his bunker in Berlin, and that some guy whose name sounds like Donuts is now in charge of Krautland.”

“Doenitz,” corrected Miller, stifling a smile. “He’s an admiral in their navy.”

Good God, he thought, could the shelling have been nothing more than a bunch of drunken Russians celebrating? The Commies might have gotten the news first, and God knew they had so much more reason to celebrate Hitler’s death. What did it mean for their situation in Potsdam? With Hitler out of the way, did it mean an end to the war with Germany? But did it mean the start of a new one with Russia?

General Miller checked the calendar on the wall and noted the date. It was April 30, 1945. What on earth was going to happen now?

Miller put on his helmet and stepped outside with a puzzled Captain Leland close behind. He decided he needed a dose of reality so he walked over to a nearby squad bunker and ducked in.

“ Ten-hut!” Leland ordered.

“Carry on,” Miller said. This was more like a normal army. However, it was definitely against regulations for enlisted men and officers to be drinking together. Damn, it was something else he would have to ignore.

“Gentlemen,” Miller said, “I have just heard that one Sergeant Logan has been promoted to lieutenant. I’ve also heard that Hitler is dead and I don’t know which is more important. If the rumor is true it’s great news. However, if Logan’s been promoted, then this army is doomed and we should all plan to surrender right now.”

There was stunned silence followed by hoots of laughter. “Congratulations, Lieutenant,” Miller said, and the two men shook hands. “The lieutenant and I go back a ways. When I first got to England, Mr. Logan was a mere corporal and got dragooned into driving for me. I knew he was officer material the first time he got behind the wheel and we nearly ran into an oncoming truck.”

“Sir, it wasn’t my fault,” Logan answered with a smile. The schnapps was very relaxing. Hitler was dead and he’d been promoted. Not a bad day at all. “Nobody told me those crazy Brits drove on the wrong side of the road.”

“Yes, but after two weeks you still hadn’t figured it out and you damn near got me killed a half-dozen times more. And besides, they think we’re the ones who are nuts for driving on the right.”

Miller eyed a half-full bottle of schnapps standing proudly on an empty ammo carton. Sergeant Krenski tentatively handed him a glass. Miller poured a decent portion and held up the glass. “Good luck, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And good luck to your men. They’re going to need it.”

Again, more good-natured hoots. Miller knew it was time to leave. He’d had his fun, and generals have a way of suffocating parties. If anyone asked whether he’d seen officers and enlisted men drinking together, he’d simply say that he’d seen them drinking separately but in the same room. Sometimes regulations are meant to be ignored.

He and Leland stepped outside into the bright sunlight. Logan followed them. “Who got the dollar?” Miller asked.

“The first sergeant, sir,” said Logan. Traditionally, the first person who salutes a brand-new second lieutenant got a dollar from him. “But I think he cheated.”

Miller laughed and walked away. Logan took in his new domain, which consisted of three bunkers in a couple of ruined buildings. It was not a magnificent kingdom. “Officer and a gentleman” had a nice ring to it, but what it really meant was additional responsibility and more work. Instead of a squad, he had a platoon of more than thirty men. He had to admit, though, he wasn’t displeased. He’d been chafing under the realization that he was capable of being more than an enlisted man, even a sergeant. A damn shame it had to come as a result of Singer’s destroyed arm.

A group of refugees was working at clearing the area of debris. He spotted the dark-haired girl he’d seen several times earlier. He’d never met her, but almost felt like he should apologize. She was so small and thin he’d first thought she was a child. He’d seen her a couple of times since then and realized she was a young woman, and not bad-looking at all.

She hung around a lot with that von Schumann character, and Logan wondered if she spoke English. It would be nice to talk to a young woman again. Hell, he laughed, it’d be nice even if she didn’t speak English.

Assistant Secretary of State Dean Acheson was shown almost immediately into the drab and spartan office of the Soviet ambassador, Andrei Gromyko. As always, the grim and unsmiling Russian dispensed with formalities and went to the heart of the matter. If Gromyko was upset that it was the lower-ranking Acheson and not Secretary of State Stettinius who had come in response to his summons, he made no comment. And if he was surprised that Natalie Holt followed Acheson, he again showed nothing, merely nodded as terse introductions were made.

The reasons for Natalie’s presence were twofold. First, she could translate if necessary, and second, Acheson and others wanted to gauge the Russian’s reaction on seeing her after Soviet goons had tried to kill her and Burke.

“My government is most upset,” Gromyko began.

“As is mine,” responded Acheson, interrupting the Russian. His instructions were to not play games. He was to be polite, but very firm. He had requested Natalie’s presence as a means of possibly discomfiting Gromyko. Although the Russian stared at her, it didn’t seem to be working.

“The attack of the American army upon the peace-loving Soviet liberators of Europe was unprovoked and showed a side of the capitalist states that we suspected but could not prove.”

Acheson was annoyed by the lie but dared not show it. “Your information is incorrect. We specifically told you our small force was coming to assist you, when and what direction it would take, and all this was done to avoid any kind of tragic incident like what just occurred. Your troops in the field should have been well briefed, but weren’t. Unless, of course, the attack was intentional.”

Gromyko sat stonily. He didn’t even blink.

Acheson continued as Natalie sat, transfixed, by the dialogue. “And, as to the question of who attacked whom, it is now irrelevant. Soldiers on both sides were killed and wounded, and taken prisoner, and that includes some Russian soldiers from your 47th Army. They confirm that they were ordered to attack our positions. We also hold you responsible for the casualties caused by Russian soldiers, doubtless drunk, who indiscriminately fired artillery at our positions, particularly in Potsdam, in celebration of the death of Hitler.”

“No troops of ours fired on yours. We are too disciplined. More than likely the drunks wore American uniforms.” Gromyko sneered. He leaned forward and glared, and Natalie could almost feel the heat of his anger. “Now, let us get to matters that are truly important. We hold over five thousand of your men as prisoners and are gathering more each day like a farmer gathers wheat. Your soldiers are uninspired and fearful, as well they should be.”

Gromyko leaned back in his chair. “I will not argue with you as to which army fired first. It does not matter, as you have doubtless been told lies by your Eisenhower, who wishes to cover for his mistakes.

“As to any of our Soviet soldiers in your hands spreading such filth as you stated, it is apparent that they are either lying to gain advantage or were tortured. However, whatever transpired to start the fighting is done and cannot be undone. Now we must discuss what happens next and what price you will pay for your country’s insolence.”

Acheson stiffened. Now it comes, he thought.

“The Soviet Union will both release the men we have taken as prisoners and permit the force in Potsdam to depart upon your agreeing to the following conditions: First, you will not attempt any further offensive actions against the Soviet army.”

Acheson mentally concurred. There were no plans to do any such thing, anyhow. “I presume you will permit us to continue our supply efforts and provide us with a list of those Americans being held prisoner.”

“Certainly. The second condition is that you will disavow any rights to Berlin, which our brave socialist comrades have taken and hold by right of conquest. Further, the zones of occupation that were to have been divided among the United States, Great Britain, and, at your insistence, France, shall now be limited to the Rhineland and the area just to the northwest of Switzerland. You will not occupy any of Austria.”

The fifty-two-year-old Acheson was stunned, and Natalie was hard-pressed to keep her emotions in check. She spoke for the first time. “That, Ambassador Gromyko, is not what was agreed to at Yalta.”

Gromyko shrugged, as if dismissing the query of a small and not particularly bright child. “Women should not be involved in these sorts of discussions.”

Despite his pious-sounding statement, he had been undressing Natalie with his eyes. She was used to this sort of treatment and simply glared at him. Gromyko represented all that she hated. People like him had destroyed her family.

Natalie responded angrily. “I am involved because your people tried to kill me.”

Gromyko was unmoved. “You and your lover, Colonel Burke, had something that belonged to us. It was considered quite important at the time. However, there was no attempt on your life. You imagined it. My men may have gotten overzealous in an attempt to halt you and recover our property, but they have been chastised, and, after all, nothing came of it. Colonel Korzov has returned to Moscow for reassignment following his indiscretion. Regardless, neither you nor Colonel Burke are of any interest to us. You may do whatever you wish without any paranoid fears. Neither you, nor Burke, nor your mother are of any interest to us.”

Natalie tried not to gasp. Korzov reassigned? Probably to a grave. And how the devil did he know about her mother?

“Secretary Acheson and Miss Holt, the Yalta agreement no longer applies; in fact, it no longer exists. When you attacked the Russian army you repudiated it. You should be fortunate that the Soviet Union, which has suffered twenty million dead at the hands of the Hitlerites, is permitting you any voice whatsoever in the future of Germany. I agree with Premier Stalin and Comrade Molotov that our terms are most generous.”

“Ambassador,” Acheson persisted, “that sort of settlement would be unacceptable to the American people. It would be as if all our efforts in Europe were for nothing. We too paid a debt in blood and cannot simply walk away from it.”

Gromyko stared at the ceiling. It was as if further discussion of a closed topic bored him. “What the American people think is of absolutely no concern. You should be more strict with them. As is Comrade Stalin, for instance, with those who do not see his vision for a united peoples’ Europe.”

“I am well aware how your government treats those who disagree with it,” Natalie said acidly. “I would not think it something to be proud of.”

The comment appeared to amuse Gromyko. “Your opinions are of no concern to me, Miss Holt. I am well aware that your parents were traitors to the Soviet Union.”

The comment stunned her. How did Gromyko know so much about her background? Or were there Soviet sympathizers in the State Department who would leak that sort of information? Perhaps some State Department employees were being blackmailed. She might have been vulnerable if her mother’s past hadn’t already become common knowledge within State. But what about others? The FBI was already checking. What would they find?

Gromyko turned to Acheson. “If you were implying that acceptance of our most generous terms will cost Mr. Truman his office, then I am utterly unsympathetic. Having permitted this insanity to occur, it is likely that he is incompetent and should go. We can deal with his replacement as readily as we do him, and our terms will not change.”

Gromyko rose, signaling an end to the short meeting. “Please convey my regards to Mr. Stettinius and Mr. Truman, and inform them of our terms. Also please inform them that we expect a favorable response in a very short time. We cannot permit the remnants of that annoying Miller Force to remain very long where they are. It is only our innate generosity that has allowed us to permit your planes to drop food and medical supplies to them without interference. Good day, Mr. Acheson, Miss Holt.”

Captain Mack Walters truly liked piloting the military version of the Piper Cub. Unlike most pilots who lusted after the chance to fly fighters, or, second choice, bombers, the thirty-year-old Walters was quite happy flying low and slow scouting missions. He was a good pilot, but knew his limitations. In a dogfight, his lack of lightning reflexes would surely get him killed, and he really was terrified at the thought of hauling around a B-17. He was firmly convinced that aircraft that large were not intended to fly. Besides, he would have had to share the plane with others, while his current little craft was usually his and his alone, even though there was room for one more person. This left him plenty of time for reflection and contemplation.

He did not think about the unique hazards of his job, that flying a slow, unarmed plane over enemy territory would have struck some people as utter insanity. Mack enjoyed it. He liked to joke that everyone from Texas was just a little crazy anyhow, and damn few people argued with him.

Beneath him, golden sunlight reflected off the Elbe. U.S. forces were on the western side of it and the Russians on the east. His assignment was simple-to see if he could figure out what the Russians were up to as they settled in on their side of the river after the debacle that had cost so many lives.

Top brass was clearly disconcerted by the numbers of Russian troops and tanks massing along the river. Just because they were there, however, didn’t mean they had intentions of doing anything but gather and wait. But wait for what?

Walters took a deep breath and turned his tiny plane eastward, flew across the river, and over the Russian area. After a moment, he exhaled loudly when it seemed that he was unnoticed. More than likely, they had seen him but thought he was too insignificant to bother with.

He climbed higher to get a better view of the unfolding panorama. “Hot Dog to Bun,” he said, cringing at the call sign his demented commanding officer had thought up. “Hot Dog to Bun. Come in, Bun.”

A tinny voice responded over the plane’s radio. “This is Bun. What do you see, Captain?”

“I see hundreds of tanks, about the same number of trucks and other vehicles, along with many, many infantry units. A lot more than I can count. It looks like still more are coming down the pike too.”

“Hot Dog, are they still parked?” the voice asked. Mack said they were. Bun sounded disappointed. “Okay, see if you can spot anything unusual.”

Walters signed off without sharing the opinion that the whole thing was fucking unusual. He was about to turn back to the Allied side of the Elbe when a strange shadow caught his eye. Something was camouflaged, and that something was rather extensive.

He dropped lower, until he was scarcely a couple hundred feet off the ground. “Shit,” he muttered in disbelief at the sight below. He got his camera and began taking pictures. He was so engrossed he didn’t see the tracers streaming toward him from the ground as he flew over his subject.

The shells hit his tiny plane and, fortunately for him, went through its thin exterior and on into the sky. Walters began to bank and juke the plane frantically to shake off the Russian gunners as he headed in the direction of the Elbe and safety.

The plane suddenly bucked hard and he knew it had taken a bad hit. He tried to shift in his seat and a shaft of almost unendurable pain raced from his leg to his brain, and he nearly blacked out. He looked down and saw raw red meat just above his left knee. One of the machine-gun shells had gone through his leg and exited through the roof of the cabin, where he could now see blue sky.

His body began to shake and his vision started to blur. He was going into shock and losing blood fast. He called Bun and told them what had happened and that he would try to set down on the west side of the Elbe. He explained what he had seen and that corroboration was in the camera. Bun, voice tense with real concern, wished him luck.

Suddenly, there was silence. The engine had cut out. He tried to restart it, but it refused. Mack looked down and saw he was across the river and theoretically safe. Now all he had to do was land the damn thing. There. He saw a field. Even better, there were a couple of jeeps not too far away. As he dropped to the ground, he saw people running to them and driving toward where he would land. Help was coming and he knew he would need it fast.

The plane touched the uneven ground, skipped along, and finally came to a bumpy, jolting stop that made him scream from the pain of his shattered leg as the Piper hit every lump and furrow. Then there was silence and a feeling of deep peace settled over him. Mack Walters was delighted. As his world faded, his last living thought was how strange it was that his leg had stopped bleeding and he didn’t hurt anymore.

• • •

Harry Truman was outraged and felt betrayed. He glowered at the handful of people in the Oval Office.

“Would someone tell me just how the hell the Chicago Tribune gets away with printing national secrets? I knew that the Tribune’s publisher, McCormick, hated Roosevelt, but why has he transferred that nastiness to me?”

“Because we’re Democrats,” muttered Attorney General Francis Biddle. “Colonel Robert McCormick hated FDR with an intensity that bordered on the pathological. As Roosevelt’s successor, you are the logical beneficiary of his wrath. To McCormick, anything that smacks of the New Deal is evil. As the Tribune’s publisher, he can print pretty well anything he wishes if he isn’t afraid of the consequences.”

“Can we deny it?” Truman asked. “We still have a number of things we’ve either lied about or withheld from the public for the good of the war effort.”

General Marshall answered, “I don’t see how.”

The original press releases had referred only to a tragic misunderstanding that had caused “some casualties” and that steps were under way to ensure that the situation did not repeat itself. It was true, but terribly incomplete. Somehow, the Tribune had gotten hold of the full story of the battle and had printed it. Now the uproar was sweeping the United States and Congress was raging for an answer.

“The Tribune says there are more than ten thousand casualties,” Biddle said. “That can’t be correct. Aren’t most of them just missing?”

Marshall patiently instructed him that soldiers who were missing in action were counted as casualties, and that many were Russian prisoners. Gromyko had said five thousand, and no one could dispute him. “Dear God,” moaned Biddle.

Truman laughed bitterly. He didn’t like Biddle. The man was a weakling and some said he was totally dominated by the FBI director, J. Edgar Hoover. What the devil had FDR been thinking when he appointed the man? When the situation got settled, one of his first changes would be to name a new attorney general.

Marshall appeared deep in thought. He was still mulling over the flash message he had gotten from Ike’s headquarters. The implications were ominous, but he was not ready to share them with the others in the room.

“Sir,” Marshall finally said, “like everyone else gathered here, I have no idea which way the Russians will jump. It is indeed possible that the apparent victory over Germany will result in everything they wish, but I somehow doubt it. As Mr. Stettinius reported on Acheson’s meeting this morning with Gromyko, I think they will hang on to our boys in Potsdam as well as those in their prison camps and try to wring concessions out of us. Worst possible alternative is that they will launch an all-out attack across the Elbe that will result in a full-scale war.”

“If the Reds do come, is Ike prepared for it?” Truman asked.

“As much as anyone can be with so little time to actually do anything. However, if the Russians do attack, I am confident the results will not be as one-sided as the attack on Miller Force.”

Truman shook his head. “Gromyko has told us what they want in return for our boys. It is totally unacceptable, practically absurd. Berlin cannot be handed to them entirely. That would leave us very little control of Germany, and then only at the sufferance of Russia. Acheson thinks there’s a small possibility Gromyko’s comments might have been a starting point for real talks, but I am not so certain.”

The president stood and looked out the window behind his desk. “War with Russia?” he said, thinking aloud. “God help us.”