No Less Than Victory

by Jeff Shaara

  “The reporters are waiting to hear from you. It’s all been set up.”

  Eisenhower had known that, felt suddenly nervous, never enjoyed the press conferences.

  “It can wait … just a minute. First, I think somebody ought to find a bottle of champagne.”

  They walked without security guards, the first time Eisenhower could remember being unescorted. The guards were there, of course, watching from distant perches, making sure no renegade sniper, no spy with some unfulfilled mission, found his way into the headquarters compound. Patton was calm, subdued, and Eisenhower could sense the man’s dark mood, something he had expected completely. Patton’s war was over. At least for now.

  “You sure he’s dead? I’d be happy to go up there and check it out myself.”

  Eisenhower had expected that as well.

  “The Russians found bodies outside Hitler’s bunker. They say there’s no doubt one of them is Hitler. They’re a little cagey about details, but that’s nothing new. The rest of the German command is being rounded up, most without any problem, though the Russians aren’t saying much about that either. I’m guessing it’s the reason so many generals are finding their way into our lines. They try to hide out, there’s the chance it’ll be the Russians who finds them. And from what I’ve heard, no one is calling seriously for guerrilla warfare. Some of the top Krauts will blow their own brains out. It seems to be the German way.”

  “Too damn bad. I really wanted to be there when we nailed Hitler. Really wanted to see the place, to move in there with a flock of tanks and blow the whole place to bits.”

  “Berlin’s not much to see, George. Whatever the bombers didn’t flatten, the Russians did. I’ve heard it was a bloodbath. It’ll take years to clean that place up.”

  They walked for a few more paces, Eisenhower feeling strangely lost. He had fought the nagging hints of depression, told himself it was normal. Shouldn’t be, he thought. We oughta be dancing out here, celebrating that after six years, nobody’s being shot at today. Well, almost nobody. There’s always some jackass who won’t accept that he’s beaten, that his side lost. He glanced sideways at Patton. Might be a few who won’t accept winning. He kept walking, his brain curling toward the mountain of work waiting for him, the extraordinary task of organizing the occupation forces, all the incredible details that had to be dealt with before the diplomats would take over. That’s why George is so blue, he thought. This will be no place for a soldier.

  Patton said, “The undersecretary left this morning. Patterson. On his way … hell I don’t know, Salzburg maybe. Nice sort of fellow. For a government man.”

  “We’re all government men, George. GI. Government Issue.”

  “I had a good talk with him last night. Surprised me. He actually had a brain. I’d met him before, somewhere, and damn if he didn’t recall every detail. Gift for faces, he says. We spent the evening at the horse stables at the Imperial Riding Academy. Impressive place. You’d never know those people just lost a war. They were a real whizbang at teaching those horses to do tricks. I miss the cavalry, always have. Tanks don’t do tricks.”

  Eisenhower was getting impatient, knew there was a reason Patton wanted to talk to him. “What’s on your mind, George?”

  Patton rubbed a hand on his face, thought a moment, said, “I’d hate to see you dismantle what we have here. We need to keep up the flow of replacements, keep pushing the training.”

  Eisenhower stopped walking.

  “Why?”

  “That’s what the secretary asked me. I’ll tell you what I told him. We need to show the Russians how strong we are. Sharpen the bayonets, polish the boots. It’s the only way we’ll get their respect, and if we don’t have their respect … we haven’t won this war.”

  Eisenhower saw the familiar gleam in Patton’s eye, knew there were wheels turning, wheels that might run completely off the track into yet another minefield.

  “Watch it, George.”

  “Dammit, Ike, we could drive those people all the way back to their border in five days. They’ve overstretched their supply lines, they’re beat to hell. They survived by stripping the countryside when they made their advance, and they’d have to go back the same way. It wouldn’t be a fight, Ike, it would be a stampede! If we give them time to build up their supplies, to refit and rearm—”

  “You want to start a war with the Russians? George, are you out of your damn mind?”

  Eisenhower glanced around, realized his voice had risen. No one was close, the streams of activity moving past mostly in the steady rumbling of trucks.

  Patton seemed to absorb the scolding, his gloom deepening.

  “War is about power, Ike. Moscow knows that. I don’t think Washington does. If we claim we won this war, and then we let half of Europe fall into communism … we haven’t won a damn thing. My job was to knock that Kraut son of a bitch on his ass. Okay, mission accomplished. But there’s a Russian son of a bitch who is stepping in to take his place.”

  “Stop it. Enough of this. You talked like this to the undersecretary of war? That wasn’t too smart, George. That kind of talk gets back to Washington, and you’re the one out on your ass. The Russians depended on us for supplies and we depended on them to punch in Hitler’s eastern flank. That’s what allies do, dammit. And even if I thought they were going to be a problem, it’s not for us to decide. President Truman tells me to attack Zhukov’s army, that’s what I’ll do. But that’s not going to happen, and you know it. You said that to Patterson? George, that was just plain stupid.”

  Eisenhower was angry now, the stress and anxiety of all he had to do releasing itself in a wave of temper. He fought the urge to scream into Patton’s face, stared away, couldn’t look at the man’s self-righteous smugness. “You think you have the answer to every problem. You think your fists are a cure for everything.” He paused, forced down the volume of his voice. “This war is over. Get that through your skull. You want to fight? Good! I heard you were asking about China. Fine, sounds like a swell idea. I’ll start working on that, talk to General Marshall about it. Marshall is already suggesting that Hodges be assigned to MacArthur. Courtney’s happy as hell, can’t wait to get to the Pacific.”

  Patton grunted, and Eisenhower knew the meaning immediately.

  “Don’t worry, George, I wouldn’t dream of putting you and Mac in the same room. One of you would end up hanging from the gallows, and it wouldn’t be MacArthur. But that’s where you need to be aiming all those sharpened bayonets, George, the Pacific!”

  Patton was obviously subdued, nodded slowly.

  “China is the place for me. Al Wedemeyer’s a good friend. I’ll be happy to serve under him.”

  “You outrank him, George.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I outranked Bradley, and, if I recall, there was a time when I outranked you. I’ll go where the fight is.”

  “We’ll see how this plays out. There’s too much to do here before I can lose you.”

  “Oh, I know. I want to prepare a general order for the Third Army, give my boys some credit for what they did. The press is waiting to hear from me, so I need to scoot back down to my HQ. Tomorrow, I’m supposed to tour the Škoda munitions plant. Might be pretty interesting. Yep, plenty to do.”

  Patton was suddenly too agreeable, and Eisenhower knew when he was being patronized.

  “Leave this Russian thing alone, George. Especially to reporters. You got that?”

  Patton stared up at the sky, hands on his hips.

  “You’re the boss, Ike.”

  On May 9, the Germans dutifully attended a second surrender ceremony in Berlin. Eisenhower was told that the event had been designated by the Russians to serve as a symbol of the unity of all the Allies, to make clear to the world that the Germans had capitulated completely to all their enemies. Eisenhower was invited to participate, but his duties were mounting, and though he appreciated the gesture from Marshal Zhukov, the logistics of his attendance just weren’t practical. Arthur Tedder
went in his place, accompanied by two planeloads of staff officers, including Harry Butcher. There were reporters as well, and Butcher’s job was to keep everybody in line, to make sure no one stepped on any Russian toes.

  The Russians made considerable effort to glorify their ceremony, and produced a film of the event, a lavish production that emphasized in definite terms that it was the sacrifice of the Russian soldier that had made possible their victory over the brutal savagery of the Germans. The surrender ceremony at Rheims was never mentioned.

  The army of occupation had taken shape, and many of the battle-weary divisions were assuming a new role: manning the front lines along clearly defined boundaries that marked the territories agreed upon between the western Allies and the Russians. The two armies faced one another along distinct geographic lines, including rivers, but other lines existed only on maps. The American forces whose forward motion had been halted by the dictates of politicians were now staring across at a Russian army that returned the stare with the same growing anxieties that their ally was not completely trustworthy. The animosity had been stoked by the exchange of prisoners. The British and Americans had worked to expedite the return home of those Russian soldiers who had been liberated from German camps. On the other side, American POWs were being held by what seemed to be Russian hesitation, and, according to some of the GIs who were finally returned, Americans troops were being interrogated, or treated in other ways as though they weren’t exactly on friendly terms with the Russians who held them. No one suggested that the American POWs were being especially abused. That abuse was reserved for the German troops now in Russian hands. Word was sifting through the Allied lines that Russian treatment of German soldiers and former Nazi officials was everything the Germans had feared. But the Russians were surprisingly suspicious of their own, Russian soldiers, who had been passed over through American lines. More reports were received that the Russians were regarding their captured brethren as potentially dangerous, as though by allowing themselves to be captured, the Russian troops had somehow cooperated with Hitler’s forces. Nearly every prisoner was suspected of being a deserter, whether there was any proof of that or not. Even worse, Russian soldiers of non-Russian ethnicity were being treated with the same brutality as the Germans.

  The outrage over delays in releasing the British and American POWs began to jeopardize what Eisenhower knew was a fragile cordiality. Finally, after considerable noise behind the scenes, the Russians succumbed to the pressure to expedite the release of western POWs. The Russians offered no apologies, and no justification for the hostile treatment of their allies. To many, it seemed they were delaying the release of friendly POWs just because they could. And there wasn’t much Eisenhower, or anyone else, could do about it.

  The Allied army for the occupation of Germany did not require the enormous numbers of troops that had been poured into Eisenhower’s command. Some of the units who had endured the toughest assignments were designated to be sent home. Others were selected to return to facilities in the States to begin training for what the army described as jungle training. No one was confused by the meaning of that. Even the troops who were designated for discharge from the service were wary of an increasing tide of rumors. All through the encampments, the orders came for the men to prepare to travel once more, this time toward the seaports on the French and Belgian coasts. But the celebrations were more often muted by the nagging fear that going home was the army’s euphemism for a brief visit to the States, a quick glimpse of family and friends, before new orders would arrive. Everyone understood that a war of extraordinary viciousness was still being waged in the Pacific. No matter the army’s assurances that many of these infantrymen had done all the army would ask of them, the rumors continued to fly. Their visit to the States was only a stopover on their way to face the Japanese.

  PILSEN, CZECHOSLOVAKIA

  MAY 24, 1945

  Benson was amazed that, for reasons no one could explain, his duffel bag had been delivered to him. He had not seen the bag or its contents since he’d left Le Havre six months earlier.

  “Hey, here’s my damn razor! And the photo of my mom. I forgot all about this stuff.”

  Beside him, Mitchell was shaving from water in his helmet, leaning close at a small framed mirror.

  “Yeah, good for you. You can finally get a good shave, and then kiss your momma all the way home.”

  Benson ignored Mitchell’s sarcasm, fished through the clothes, the extra socks, a pair of boots.

  “I could have used this stuff. I don’t believe this. A whole box of candy bars. Oh God, they’re all melted. What a mess.”

  He fought the urge to empty the entire bag out on the ground, knew there was little time. Mitchell continued to shave, said nothing, and Benson looked out past the small house they had used as a bivouac.

  “Not gonna miss this place. Not one bit.” Mitchell didn’t respond, and Benson closed up the heavy bag. “I’m just gonna leave all this the way it is. We get on a damn ship, I’ll mess with it then.”

  “No you won’t. They’ll take it from you before we get on the trains, and you won’t get it back until we get stateside. Take a good look at your momma, then say good-bye. You’ll see her before you see that picture again. This is the army, kiddo. Nothing makes sense. Here, shave. This water’s okay. Use my razor. No need to waste your fancy one.”

  Benson smiled, pulled his own helmet off his head, stepped over to the water jug, filled it.

  “I’ll make my own, thanks. How about the soap? Or did you use it all up?”

  Mitchell stepped aside, made room for Benson, who smeared the last scoop of shaving cream on his face, staring down into the mirror. He began to scrape his beard, Mitchell’s razor blade just dull enough to pull each hair out individually, and he grunted, saw the nick, a small smear of blood.

  “Damn! When was the last time you changed blades?”

  Mitchell laughed, said, “You gotta be tough to use my razor, kiddo. You still got peach fuzz. Go on, it’ll work.”

  “Hey! You guys give me a hand with this, right?”

  Benson looked up toward the voice, a smear of white soap still on his chin. Beside him, Mitchell was wiping his face with a small green towel, and Benson saw the lieutenant, said, “Right now, sir?”

  “Yes, right now. This damn thing is heavy. Get it up into the truck over there.”

  Mitchell said something low under his breath, and Benson wiped his face, dumped the soapy water out of his helmet, followed Mitchell. The lieutenant was standing beside a large trunk, civilian issue, brass buckles and old brown leather. Benson could feel the officer’s jumpiness, the man glancing around. Benson moved to one end, grabbed a thick leather handle, Mitchell on the opposite side. Mitchell nodded, and they lifted in one motion, the trunk far heavier than Benson expected. His hand slipped from the handle, the trunk thumping down hard on the ground.

  The lieutenant seemed to erupt. “Watch it! That’s a bunch of valuable … good stuff! You break anything, and I’ll put your asses on latrine duty for a month!”

  Mitchell stood straight, adjusting his back.

  “What’s in here, sir? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “None of your damn business, Private. Put it in that truck. Now!”

  “What’s going on, Lieutenant?”

  The voice came from the larger house across the road, and Benson saw an older man, brass, knew only his name, Major Steele. The major seemed to know the answer to his question already.

  The lieutenant stood straight, nervous, said, “Just helping these boys get some of their stuff loaded up.”

  Mitchell’s eyes narrowed, a hot stare at the young lieutenant.

  The major said, “You know there’s a law about looting from the civilians, don’t you, Lieutenant? I’m not questioning you. But whatever’s in that trunk better have come from enemy soldiers.”

  “Yes, sir! Most certainly, sir. I’ve told these boys that.”

  The major kept his eyes on the
trunk for a long moment, then turned away, moved off down the road.

  The lieutenant seemed to deflate, said in a quiet growl, “Get this thing on that truck, and do it right now!”

  Mitchell glanced at Benson, the two men leaning down, grabbing the straps, Benson preparing himself for the weight. They hoisted the trunk just clear of the ground, shuffled quickly toward the truck, and the lieutenant moved in now, a third set of hands needed to make the final hoist into the truck. The trunk slid in heavily, the lieutenant breathing hard, relief and guilt.

  “Thanks, boys. You boys … there’s no need …” The officer was still looking around, seemed to search for the major. “Look, boys, I just picked up some stuff … gifts for my wife. Hell, these people don’t need any of this crap. We’re feeding them, giving them medicine. It’s the least they can do.”

  Benson started to say something, but Mitchell cut him off. “I wouldn’t worry about it, sir. If nobody asks us, we probably won’t say a word. Gotta say, though, I never flat-out lied to an MP before.”

  The lieutenant seemed to grit his teeth, a hard stare at Mitchell.

  “All right, look. I heard that somebody in the command post rounded up some steak. Go on over there and tell them I said you could have some. Just … don’t spread the word around.”

  Benson saw the disgust on Mitchell’s face, but breakfast had been hours ago, and Benson put aside his own moral outrage.

  “Where exactly would that be, sir?”

  “Check inside that big house over there. The company CO said some cow stepped on a mine. The farmer bitched like hell, but wasn’t much he could say about it. Not our fault. At least … nobody actually shot the damn thing.”

  Benson realized there was as little truth to that as there was to what the lieutenant pretended was in the trunk.

  “Thank you, sir. We’ll check it out.”

  “You’ve got about an hour before we move to the trains. Make sure your gear is all packed up.”

  Mitchell arched his back, still feeling the strain.