This Fog of Peace (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 4)

by William Peter Grasso

  Another operator came on the line. In Russian, she asked, “Which headquarters do you wish?”

  “Oh, sorry,” Sylvie replied in her shaky Russian. “Wrong line.” Then she pulled the plug.

  She ran her finger further down the page until she came to a call not made to that Russian Army switchboard. It was recorded in the log at the approximate time she’d overheard Mirka and appeared to be a local number. She rang it.

  “Kruger Laundry,” said the female voice answering the call.

  Quickly, Sylvie cut that call off, too.

  Kruger—that’s the laundry that services this hotel. Is that the call Mirka made? Or did she make one of these other calls to the Russian Army switchboard at about the same time?

  Whoever she called, I still don’t know the game she’s playing.

  I’ve got to get this information to our anonymous postman. Maybe they can tell me what my next move should be. It’s a good thing it’s my turn to visit the church this evening.

  No sooner had she returned the log to its current page and was blotting up the spilled tea than a breathless Herr Gestler—Franz—appeared in the doorway.

  Sylvie began to make apologies for scalding Frau Bachmann, but Gestler shushed her. “Oh, forget that nasty woman,” he said. “But have you heard the news?”

  Unless the news involved an explanation of who Mirka had spoken to on the phone and why, she wasn’t much interested. But Gestler was obviously going to tell her, anyway.

  “The Americans…they’ve dropped some new kind of bomb on Japan. They say it can destroy an entire city.”

  “Really? And how do you know this? I thought the Russians confiscated all the radios.”

  “They only think they confiscated them all, Sylvie. But still, with no newspapers it takes time for the word to travel through the Soviet zone. The American president actually made the announcement days ago.”

  “Does that mean their war with Japan is over now?”

  “No, nothing was said about that. But it’s certainly got the Russians in a lather. Do you know what the NKVD is?”

  “Of course, Herr Gestler. They’re like the Gestapo, only they speak Russian.”

  “Yes, exactly. It’s good that you understand that, because a group of them will be staying at the hotel, starting today. I’m putting them on your floor.”

  “Oh, that’s just fucking wonderful,” Sylvie replied. “What have I done to deserve this honor?”

  “It’s simple. Marshall Zhukov wouldn’t have them on the top floor. You should have heard the explosion when he was asked! But since there is no other place that befits their rank, the third floor—your floor—is where they’ll stay. By the way, have you seen your partner today?”

  “Mirka? No. Why?”

  “Because nobody has seen her since last night. You and the other girls will have to pool together to do her floor. And what about tonight? You insisted I make her a barmaid, but now—”

  “I’ll take care of the nighttime barmaid duties, too, if necessary,” she replied.

  I have no other choice, she told herself. I wasn’t sleeping much, anyway.

  Sylvie hadn’t seen the NKVD men yet, but they’d obviously arrived. The air in the hotel had seemed to go stale, almost unbreathable, as if something moldy and rank had taken up residence there. Russian officers who were usually boisterous seemed subdued now, always looking over their shoulders in case someone was shadowing them.

  Like I have to do every minute of every day, she reminded herself.

  There was still no sign of Mirka.

  Is it a coincidence that she vanishes at the same time the NKVD appears?

  Is she working with them?

  Or did they eliminate her?

  And where does all this leave me?

  I suppose if I was going to vanish, too, it would’ve happened already.

  But little comfort accompanied that thought. Sylvie had made the run to the church to drop off her latest message as planned. Returning to the hotel, she changed from her chambermaid’s work dress into the simple black skirt and white blouse of a barmaid. By 1800, she’d poured and served the first drinks of the evening.

  This shouldn’t be very challenging. These Russians want nothing but vodka or beer. It’s a shame, too, because I have all this bartending experience from my uncle’s café back in Alençon, and it’s going to waste. But I should have the brandy ready for Colonel Yanov.

  Too bad it’s not time for the knockout drops yet.

  The alcohol failed to raise any spirits among the Russians. Conversations were in hushed tones, as if being overheard could be detrimental to one’s position. Or even one’s health.

  And the NKVD haven’t even shown their faces in the bar yet.

  At 1930 hours on the dot, they walked in. Three officers in uniform—a colonel and two majors of the NKVD—took a table in the corner. Sylvie was surprised they weren’t in civilian clothes like her old adversaries, the Gestapo. If not for the blue piping on their shoulder boards, they wouldn’t have looked much different from the military officers in the room. But that was enough to mark them as Stalin’s feared secret police.

  They certainly don’t seem very secret if they’re wearing uniforms. At least the Gestapo in their civilian clothes occasionally succeeded in hiding amongst civilians, although they rarely fooled the maquis for very long. If you knew what to look for, they stood out like sore thumbs.

  She approached the table cautiously, stopping just beyond arm’s length from any of the seated men; there was a small margin of safety in that distance.

  But not enough of a margin. With pure evil, it’s never enough.

  In Russian, she asked, “What can I get you gentlemen?”

  One of them offered a surly greeting in German, as if listening to her rudimentary Russian was offensive to his ears. Then he said, “Bring us vodka,” making a circle with a finger pointed to the table, meaning all around.

  As she began her return to the bar, the German speaker leaned in his chair—closing that little margin of safety—and stopped her with a blocking hand against her upper thigh.

  Don’t jump away, she warned herself, despite her body wanting to do just that. Say nothing and endure it.

  His fingers made a gentle stroking motion, as if he was evaluating the fabric of her skirt—or simply petting her.

  “What is your name, fräulein?” he asked.

  Before she could answer, a voice from behind her spoke in Russian. “Her name is Sylvie, comrades. She and I are very good friends.”

  In a few steps, Colonel Yanov was standing beside her, his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. “I’m delighted to see you working here tonight,” he said. “Such a nice surprise!”

  “Brandy, Colonel?” she asked.

  “Yes, please.” Turning to the men at the table, he said, “See? She even knows my drink.” Smacking her softly on the buttocks, he added, “Now hurry with our order, my sweet child.”

  Working behind the bar, she kept stealing glances at the table, trying to understand the dynamics of power between Yanov, the Communist political officer, and the NKVD, agents of Stalin’s secret police. Her first thought:

  They’re being deferential to Yanov. He seems to be laying down the law to them about something…and they’re just listening. No interruptions, no rebuttals. And it’s not like he’s a commander barking orders, either. He’s speaking with the same casual air of confidence he always uses with me. It would almost seem friendly if not for the undertone of violence beneath everything he says.

  As she picked up the tray of drinks and took a step from behind the bar, her knees went weak for just a moment. It was all she could do not to drop the tray, but she spilled not so much as a drop from any of the glasses. Quickly composing herself, she understood the reason for that brief moment of panic:

  I keep thinking that being here is no different than being a maquisard undercover in that brothel full of German officers. But I’m lying to myself. There’s one
thing that’s very different:

  For all the cruelty the Germans could inflict as an organization, their officers were usually men of culture…and as individuals were even compassionate sometimes. But the Russians are different. They’re like animals let out of their cages.

  This assignment is the worst hand I’ve ever been dealt.

  My life has been in jeopardy so many times I’ve lost count. But strangely, I’ve never felt more threatened than I do right now.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Russian major couldn’t have picked a worse time to show up at Colonel Abrams’ Pisek CP. As he was escorted inside by a cordon of GIs, he came face to face with General George Patton, who was making his own impromptu visit to 37th Tank Battalion.

  Appraising the squat Russian coolly, Patton asked, “What’s on your mind, Ivan?”

  “I am here to speak with American commander of forces in Pisek,” the Russian replied.

  “Well, your cup runneth over,” Patton replied, “because you’re talking to the commander of all American forces in the southern occupation zone. What’s your beef?”

  Despite his fairly decent facility with English, Patton’s question confused him, and it showed on his face. He had no idea why he was being asked about meat.

  It took the Russian major a few seconds more to realize he was talking to George Patton himself. He’d never seen an American general before. In fact, he’d only seen two generals in his life, both Russian, and each of those meetings had been a pants-wetting experience for him.

  The major’s knees began to tremble.

  “Let me put it another way,” Patton bellowed. “What the fuck are you doing in this headquarters? Are you lost?”

  His voice quavering, the Russian replied, “No, General sir, I am not lost. I come here with a demand from my general.”

  Patton was enjoying himself now. “A demand, eh? And here I thought you were going to tell us you’re packing your bags and heading back to that shithole of yours you call a country. And I guess you’ll be walking, too, since we finally stopped giving you gasoline.”

  The Russian dampened his uneasiness just enough to appear offended. “We have much gasoline. Our fuel tanks are full.”

  Patton laughed out loud. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Ivan. We know you don’t have shit. But we’re getting off track here, aren’t we? Let’s hear this fucking demand of yours.”

  The major took a deep breath, as if expecting to be unable to breathe for a long while. Then he said, “You have German soldiers—war prisoners—under your command in the Soviet zone of occupation.”

  “They’re not in the Soviet zone of occupation, my friend,” Patton snarled. “They’re in my zone of occupation.”

  “That is not correct, General sir. This area—this town of Pisek—is in the Soviet zone. You are merely visiting with our permission. Any German soldiers found here are prisoners of the Soviet Union. You are to turn them over immediately.”

  Patton turned to Colonel Abrams and said, “Abe, have this Russian son of a bitch escorted back to his lines immediately.”

  Indignantly, the Russian asked, “You are refusing my general’s request?”

  Patton pulled one of his ivory-handled revolvers from its holster, stuck its muzzle in the Russian major’s face, and said, “Yes, I am refusing. Tell your general he can go straight to hell. Now if I were you, Ivan, I’d get out of here before I blow you straight to hell, too.”

  The terrified major beat a hasty retreat from the CP. Patton’s words chased after him:

  “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, you Red bastard.”

  As Patton holstered the pistol, Abrams asked, “You weren’t really going to shoot him, were you, sir?”

  “It all depended on what he did or said next, Abe. But his was the appropriate response.”

  Abrams continued, “Actually, I thought he’d want to complain about the blockade I’d set up and how their soldiers are beginning to starve as a result.”

  “Stalin and his flunkies don’t give a shit about their soldiers, Abe. They’ll let thousands of them die—maybe millions—so they can save face, the devious bastards.”

  Patton settled into a chair, as if the confrontation had tired him. He continued, “So your blockade of the Pisek-Prague highway is working well, then?”

  “Yes, sir. Not a truck has gotten through, and not a shot fired.”

  “Outstanding. Just make sure your supply depot and chow halls are well secured. And shoot any of those animals you catch trying to loot civilians. There’s no telling what hungry mongrels will try to do. Just nip it in the bud, Abe.”

  Patton stood and walked to the wall map. His finger tracing the thin blue line of the Vlatava, he asked, “Abe, what have I always said about rivers?”

  “That too many battles were lost because an army stopped on the wrong side of one, sir.”

  “Exactly, Abe, and I’ve been thinking we’re on the wrong side of this one.”

  Abrams couldn’t hide his concern as he asked, “How far out are you planning to push our line, sir?”

  Patton’s hand swept a grand arc across the map, its radius extending halfway across Czechoslovakia—nearly a hundred miles.

  “Where are we going to get the people and equipment to seize and hold that much ground, sir? We’re losing both by the boatload every day.”

  “For openers, Abe, I’m going to arm those SS men of ours as well as any other fit Wehrmacht troopers we’ve got locked up. We’ll give them their old weapons back, so we don’t unduly burden our chain of supply. I’ll issue the order as soon as I get back to my headquarters.”

  “What about General Eisenhower, sir? Won’t you need his approval?”

  “What Ike doesn’t know won’t hurt him. And before long, he’ll be thanking me. You can bet on that.”

  At the American roadblock on the Pisek-Prague highway, night was always the most uneasy time. The aircraft that provided recon and overhead cover during daytime were grounded once darkness fell. As Sean put it, People can sneak up on you in the dark a whole lot easier than when the sun’s up, even get around behind you without you knowing a damn thing about it…until it’s too late.

  Day or night, the roadblock itself was a nearly invisible trap, set up in perfect terrain for an ambush; the two-lane highway was nestled for miles between gentle, lush slopes rising on each side. The men, tanks, and heavy weapons lining the ambush site were well concealed from ground and air observation by trees or camouflage nets. It was a killing zone crafted by men highly skilled at this deadly business, their knowledge honed by painful experience.

  When Russian vehicles approached—many of them American built, supplied by Lend-Lease—they usually numbered no more than a dozen. So far, they hadn’t been accompanied by tanks, only an armored car mounting a light cannon or heavy machine gun. The only Americans the Russians saw were the road guards, numbering no more than six. They saw the .50-caliber jeep-mounted machine gun backing them up, too.

  In the four days the roadblock had been in business, eight Russian supply convoys were stopped by the road guards. Only one had come after dark. It would remain a mystery whether those convoys sensed the destruction that awaited them if they tried to force their way through or had been instructed not to create an incident. Each intercept went the same way: some harsh words in strange languages were hurled but barely understood while weapons were fondled menacingly but never fired.

  It all seemed some pointless act of political theater. After a minute or two of this posturing, the convoys would turn around and drive back toward Prague.

  As soon as possible after every contact with a Russian convoy, Sean made it a practice to move the ambush zone so it was never in the same place twice. Sometimes he moved it a half mile, sometimes a little more. As he explained to a disgruntled infantry staff sergeant who was getting tired of all this repositioning, “Ain’t no guarantee they didn’t know the rest of us were there. You ever heard the stories about t
hem women pilots those Ivans got who bomb you at night, gliding with their engines shut off so you don’t hear them coming? That’s all we need…sitting here fat, dumb, and happy and then, all of a sudden, there’s this whistling noise…and the next thing you know, you’re fucking dead because they knew exactly where to find you, even in the fucking dark. So in answer to your question, my fine corn plaster commando, THAT’S why we’re moving so damn much.”

  Today’s convoy had been turned back just before dusk, so it was growing dark as Sean repositioned the ambush team. To make the move simpler, he decided to park their eight deuce-and-a-halfs in a wide, treeless clearing away from the kill zone once they’d unloaded their cargo of men and weapons. If they’re all in one place, they’ll be easier to find if we gotta beat it outta here in the dark. We’ll worry about concealing them at first light.

  At the truck park, he told the drivers, “Unload the noisemakers, then park ’em ass to ass in two lines of four.”

  The noisemakers: tin cans with a few small rocks inside, hanging from a length of wire. The ambush team had boxes full of them: they’d been collecting empty C ration cans for weeks. Suspended from low-hanging branches along likely avenues of approach, they’d make a telltale rattle when intruders, who’d be unable to see the cans in the dark, brushed past them. In the stillness of night, even the faintest rattle could be heard at a fair distance.

  Once the trucks were parked, Sean instructed the drivers, “Now set out the noisemakers where I told you.”

  Then he gathered the three machine gun teams that would secure the truck park. “Okay, here’s the deal—we’re gonna set up a triangle of interlocking fire around the trucks. DiSalvo and Montez—you two set up your guns in this corner over here. DiSalvo, you fire north. Montez, you fire east-northeast. Any questions?”