by Ken Follett
On the fourth day of December the Soviet forces moved out of the city to the north, west, and south and took up their positions for the last effort. They went without lights, to avoid alerting the enemy. They were not allowed to have fires or smoke tobacco.
That evening the front line was visited by NKVD agents. Volodya did not see his rodent-faced brother-in-law, Ilya Dvorkin, who must have been among them. A pair he did not recognize came to the bivouac where Volodya and a dozen men were cleaning their rifles. Have you heard anyone criticizing the government? they asked. What do the fellows say about Comrade Stalin? Who among your comrades questions the wisdom of the army's strategy and tactics?
Volodya was incredulous. What did it matter at this point? In the next few days Moscow would be saved or lost. Who cared if soldiers bitched about their officers? He cut the questioning short, saying that he and his men were under a rule of silence, and he had orders to shoot anyone who broke it, but--he added recklessly--he would let the secret policemen off if they left immediately.
That worked, but Volodya had no doubt that the NKVD was undermining the morale of the troops all along the line.
On Friday, December 5, in the evening, the Russian artillery thundered into action. Next morning at dawn Volodya and his battalion moved off in a blizzard. Their orders were to take a small town on the far side of a canal.
Volodya ignored orders to attack the German defenses frontally--that was the old-fashioned Russian tactic, and this was no moment to stick obstinately to wrongheaded ideas. With his company of a hundred men he went upstream and crossed the ice to the north of the town, then moved in on the Germans' flank. He could hear the crash and roar of battle off to his left, so he knew he was behind the enemy's front line.
Volodya was almost blinded by the blizzard. The occasional blaze of gunfire lit up the clouds for a moment, but at ground level visibility was only a few yards. However, he thought optimistically, that would help the Russians creep up on the Germans and take them by surprise.
It was viciously cold, down to minus thirty-five degrees centigrade in places, and while this was bad for both sides, it was worse for the Germans, who lacked cold-weather supplies.
Somewhat to his surprise Volodya found that the normally efficient Germans had not consolidated their line. There were no trenches, no antitank ditches, no dugouts. Their front was no more than a series of strongpoints. It was easy to slip through the gaps into the town and look for soft targets, barracks and canteens and ammunition dumps.
His men shot three sentries to take a soccer field in which were parked fifty tanks. Could it be so easy? Volodya wondered. Was the force that had conquered half Russia now depleted and spent?
The corpses of Soviet soldiers, killed in previous skirmishes and left to freeze where they had died, were without their boots and coats, which had presumably been taken by shivering Germans.
The streets of the town were littered with abandoned vehicles--empty trucks with open doors, snow-covered tanks with cold engines, and jeeps with their bonnet lids propped up as if to show that mechanics had tried to fix them but had given up in despair.
Crossing a main road, Volodya heard a car engine and made out, through the snowfall, a pair of headlights approaching on his left. At first he assumed it was a Soviet vehicle that had pushed through the German lines. Then he and his group were fired on, and he yelled at them to take cover. The car turned out to be a Kubelwagen, a Volkswagen jeep with the spare wheel on the hood in front. It had an air-cooled engine, which was why it had not frozen up. It rattled past them at top speed, the Germans firing from their seats.
Volodya was so surprised that he forgot to fire back. Why was a vehicle full of armed Germans driving away from the battle?
He took his company across the road. He had expected that by now they would be fighting their way from house to house, but they met little opposition. The buildings of the occupied town were locked up, shuttered, dark. Any Russians inside were hiding under their beds, if they had any sense.
More cars came along the road, and Volodya decided that officers must be fleeing the battlefield. He detailed a section with a Degtyarev DP-28 light machine gun to take cover in a cafe and fire on them. He did not want them to live to kill Russians tomorrow.
Just off the main road he spotted a low brick building with bright lights behind skimpy curtains. Creeping past a sentry who could not see far in the snowstorm, he was able to peer in and discern officers inside. He guessed he was looking at a battalion headquarters.
He gave whispered instructions to his sergeants. They shot out the windows, then tossed grenades through. A few Germans came out with their hands on their heads. A minute later Volodya had taken the building.
He heard a new noise. He listened, frowning in puzzlement. More than anything else, it sounded like a football crowd. He stepped out of the headquarters building. The sound was coming from the front line, and it was growing louder.
There was a rattle of machine-gun fire, then, a hundred yards away on the main road, a truck slewed sideways and careered off the road into a brick wall, then burst into flames--hit, presumably, by the DP-28 Volodya had deployed. Two more vehicles followed immediately behind it and escaped.
Volodya ran to the cafe. The machine gun stood on its bipod on a dining table. This model was nicknamed Record Player because of the disc-shaped magazine that sat atop the barrel. The men were enjoying themselves. "It's like shooting pigeons in the yard, sir!" said a gunner. "Easy!" One of the men had raided the kitchen and found a big canister of ice cream, miraculously unspoiled, and they were taking turns to scoff it.
Volodya looked out through the smashed window of the cafe. He saw another vehicle coming, a jeep he thought, and behind it some men running. As they got nearer he recognized German uniforms. More followed behind, dozens, perhaps hundreds. They were responsible for the football-crowd sound.
The gunner trained the barrel on the oncoming car, but Volodya put a hand on his shoulder. "Wait," he said.
He stared into the blizzard, making his eyes sting. All he could see were more vehicles and more running men, plus a few horses.
A soldier raised a rifle. "Don't shoot," Volodya said. The crowd came closer. "We can't stop this lot--we'd be overrun in a minute," he said. "Let them pass. Take cover." The men lay down. The gunner lifted the DP-28 off the table. Volodya sat on the floor and peered over the windowsill.
The noise rose to a roar. The leading men drew level with the cafe and passed. They were running, stumbling, and limping. Some carried rifles, most seemed to have lost their weapons; some had coats and hats, others nothing but their uniform tunics. Many were wounded. Volodya saw a man with a bandaged head fall down, crawl a few yards, and collapse. No one took any notice. A cavalryman on horseback trampled an infantryman and galloped on, heedless. Jeeps and staff cars drove dangerously through the crowd, skidding on the ice, honking madly and scattering men to both sides.
It was a rout, Volodya realized. They went by in the thousands. It was a stampede. They were on the run.
At last, the Germans were in retreat.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
1941 ( IV )
Woody Dewar and Joanne Rouzrokh flew from Oakland, California, to Honolulu on a Boeing B-314 flying boat. The Pan Am flight took fourteen hours. Just before arriving they had a massive row.
Perhaps it was spending so long in a small space. The flying boat was one of the biggest planes in the world, but passengers sat in one of six small cabins, each of which had two facing rows of four seats. "I prefer the train," said Woody, awkwardly crossing his long legs, and Joanne had the grace not to point out that you could not go to Hawaii by train.
The trip was Woody's parents' idea. They had decided to take a vacation in Hawaii so they could see Woody's younger brother, Chuck, who was stationed there. Then they invited Woody and Joanne to join them for the second week of the holiday.
Woody and Joanne were engaged. Woody had proposed at the end of the summer, after
four weeks of hot weather and passionate love in Washington. Joanne had said it was too soon, but Woody had pointed out that he had been in love with her for six years, and asked how long would be enough. She had given in. They would get married next June, as soon as Woody graduated from Harvard. Meanwhile, their engaged status entitled them to go on family holidays together.
She called him Woods, and he called her Jo.
The plane began to lose height as they approached Oahu, the main island. They could see forested mountains, a sparse scatter of villages in the lowlands, and a fringe of sand and surf. "I bought a new swimsuit," Joanne said. They were sitting side by side, and the roar of the four Wright Twin Cyclone fourteen-cylinder engines was too loud for her to be overheard.
Woody was reading The Grapes of Wrath but he put it down willingly. "I can't wait to see you in it." He meant it. She was a swimsuit manufacturer's dream, making all their products look sensational.
She glanced at him from under half-closed eyelids. "I wonder if your parents booked us adjoining rooms at the hotel." Her dark brown eyes seemed to smolder.
Their engaged status did not allow them to sleep together, at least not officially, though Woody's mother did not miss much and she might have guessed they were lovers.
Woody said: "I'll find you, wherever you are."
"You'd better."
"Don't talk like that. I'm already uncomfortable enough in this seat."
She smiled contentedly.
The American naval base came into view. A lagoon shaped like a palm leaf formed a large natural harbor. Half the Pacific Fleet was here, about a hundred ships. The rows of fuel storage tanks looked like checkers on a board.
In the middle of the lagoon was an island with an airstrip. At the western end of the island, Woody saw a dozen or more seaplanes moored.
Right next to the lagoon was Hickam air base. Several hundred aircraft were parked with military precision, wingtip to wingtip, on the tarmac.
Banking for its approach, the plane flew over a beach with palm trees and gaily striped umbrellas--which Woody guessed must be Waikiki--then a small town that had to be Honolulu, the capital.
Joanne was owed some leave by the State Department, but Woody had had to skip a week of classes in order to take this vacation. "I'm kind of surprised at your father," Joanne said. "He's usually against anything that interrupts your education."
"I know," said Woody. "But you know the real reason for this trip, Jo? He thinks it could be the last time we see Chuck alive."
"Oh, my God, really?"
"He thinks there's going to be a war, and Chuck is in the navy."
"I think he's right. There will be a war."
"What makes you so sure?"
"The whole world is hostile to freedom." She pointed to the book in her lap, a bestseller called Berlin Diary by the radio broadcaster William Shirer. "The Nazis have Europe," she said. "The Bolsheviks have Russia. And now the Japanese are taking control of the Far East. I don't see how America can survive in such a world. We have to trade with somebody!"
"That's pretty much what my father thinks. He believes we'll go to war against Japan next year." Woody frowned thoughtfully. "What's happening in Russia?"
"The Germans don't seem quite able to take Moscow. Just before I left there was a rumor of a massive Russian counterattack."
"Good news!"
Woody looked out. He could see Honolulu airport. The plane would splash down in a sheltered inlet alongside the runway, he presumed.
Joanne said: "I hope nothing major happens while I'm away."
"Why?"
"I want a promotion, Woods--so I don't want someone bright and promising to shine in my absence."
"Promotion? You didn't say."
"I don't have it yet, but I'm aiming for research officer."
He smiled. "How high do you want to go?"
"I'd like to be ambassador to someplace fascinating and complex, Nanking or Addis Ababa."
"Really?"
"Don't look skeptical. Frances Perkins is the first woman secretary of labor--and a damn good one."
Woody nodded. Perkins had been labor secretary from the start of Roosevelt's presidency eight years ago, and had won union support for the New Deal. An exceptional woman could aspire to almost anything nowadays. And Joanne was truly exceptional. But somehow it came as a shock to him that she was so ambitious. "But an ambassador has to live overseas," he said.
"Wouldn't it be great? Foreign culture, weird weather, exotic customs."
"But . . . how does that fit in with marriage?"
"Excuse me?" she said with asperity.
He shrugged. "It's a natural question, don't you think?"
Her expression did not change, except that her nostrils flared--a sign, he knew, that she was getting angry. "Have I asked you that question?" she said.
"No, but . . ."
"Well?"
"I'm just wondering, Jo--do you expect me to live wherever your career takes you?"
"I'll try to fit in with your needs, and I think you should try to fit in with mine."
"But it's not the same."
"Isn't it?" She was openly annoyed now. "This is news to me."
He wondered how the conversation had become so acrimonious so quickly. With an effort at making his tone of voice reasonable and amiable, he said: "We've talked about having children, haven't we?"
"You'll have them, as well as me."
"Not in exactly the same way."
"If children are going to make me a second-class citizen in this marriage, then we're not having any."
"That's not what I mean!"
"What the heck do you mean?"
"If you're appointed ambassador somewhere, do you expect me to drop everything and go with you?"
"I expect you to say: 'My darling, this is a wonderful opportunity for you, and I'm certainly not going to stand in your way.' Is that unreasonable?"
"Yes!" Woody was baffled and angry. "What's the point of being married, if we're not together?"
"If war breaks out, will you volunteer?"
"I guess I might."
"And the army would send you wherever they need you--Europe, the Far East."
"Well, yes."
"So you'll go where your duty takes you, and leave me at home."
"If I have to."
"But I can't do that."
"It's not the same! Why are you pretending it is?"
"Strangely enough, my career and my service to my country seem important to me--just as important as yours to you."
"You're just being perverse!"
"Well, Woods, I'm really sorry you think that, because I've been talking very seriously about our future together. Now I have to ask myself whether we even have one."
"Of course we do!" Woody could have screamed with frustration. "How did this happen? How did we get to this?"
There was a bump, and the plane splashed down in Hawaii.
ii
Chuck Dewar was terrified that his parents would learn his secret.
Back home in Buffalo he had never had a real love affair, just a few hasty fumbles in dark alleys with boys he hardly knew. Half the reason he had joined the navy was to go places where he could be himself without his parents finding out.
Since he got to Hawaii it had been different. Here he was part of an underground community of similar people. He went to bars and restaurants and dance halls where he did not have to pretend to be heterosexual. He had had some affairs, and then he had fallen in love. A lot of people knew his secret.
And now his parents were here.
His father was invited to visit the signal intelligence unit at the naval base, known as Station HYPO. As a member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, Senator Dewar was let into many military secrets, and he had already been shown around signal intelligence headquarters, called Op-20-G, in Washington.
Chuck picked him up at his hotel in Honolulu in a navy car, a Packard LeBaron limousine. Papa was wearing a w
hite straw hat. As they drove around the rim of the harbor, he whistled. "The Pacific Fleet," he said. "A beautiful sight."
Chuck agreed. "Quite something, isn't it?" he said. Ships were beautiful, especially in the U.S. Navy, where they were painted and scrubbed and shined. Chuck thought the navy was great.
"All those battleships in a perfect straight line," Gus marveled.
"We call it Battleship Row. Moored off the island are Maryland, Tennessee, Arizona, Nevada, Oklahoma, and West Virginia." Battleships were named after states. "We also have California and Pennsylvania in harbor, but you can't see them from here."
At the main gate to the navy yard, the marine on sentry duty recognized the official car and waved them in. They drove to the submarine base and stopped in the parking lot behind headquarters, the Old Administration Building. Chuck took his father into the recently opened new wing.
Captain Vandermeier was waiting for them.
Vandermeier was Chuck's greatest fear. He had taken a dislike to Chuck, and he had guessed the secret. He was always calling Chuck a powder puff or a pantywaist. If he could, he would spill the beans.
Vandermeier was a short, stocky man with a gravelly voice and bad breath. He saluted Gus and shook hands. "Welcome, Senator. It'll be my privilege to show you the Communications Intelligence Unit of the Fourteenth Naval District." This was the deliberately vague title for the group monitoring the radio signals of the Imperial Japanese Navy.
"Thank you, Captain," said Gus.
"A word of warning, first, sir. It's an informal group. This kind of work is often done by eccentric people, and correct naval uniform is not always worn. The officer in charge, Commander Rochefort, wears a red velvet jacket." Vandermeier gave a man-to-man grin. "You may think he looks like a goddamn homo."
Chuck tried not to wince.
Vandermeier said: "I won't say any more until we're in the secure zone."
"Very good," said Gus.
They went down the stairs and into the basement, passing through two locked doors on the way.
Station HYPO was a windowless neon-lit cellar housing thirty men. As well as the usual desks and chairs, it had oversize chart desks, racks of exotic IBM machine printers, sorters and collators, and two cots where the cryptanalysts took naps during their marathon codebreaking sessions. Some of the men wore neat uniforms but others, as Vandermeier had warned, were in scruffy civilian clothing, unshaven, and--to judge by the smell--unwashed.