“Lieutenant Colonel Burke,” he answered, still uncomfortable with the title the army had conferred on him. A mature woman’s voice asked if he could confirm that he was indeed the Lieutenant Colonel Steven Burke of the Russian Section of the War Plans department, and he assured her he was. She then informed him that General Marshall would like to see him immediately.
“Which General Marshall would that be?” he asked innocently. There were a lot of generals in Washington, D.C.
There was the sound of gentle, middle-aged feminine laughter. “Colonel, you are being summoned by the chief of staff.”
He flipped a mental coin. Either the caller was telling the truth or someone was playing a joke on him. He felt it was the latter. He was about to make a snide comment when the woman continued. “Let me reiterate; you are the Lieutenant Colonel Burke who is a Russian expert on the War Plans staff, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there are a number of Colonel Burkes around as well as, just perhaps, more than one General Marshall, and I so wanted to make certain I had the right one too.” The caller had teased him gently, but he still felt his face flush. “Yes, Colonel, the General Marshall who is chief of staff of the U.S. Army does wish to see you, and right now. Does that pose a problem?”
“No, ma’am,” he said weakly.
“Fine. A staff car will be around for you in fifteen minutes.” With that, the woman hung up.
Fifteen minutes, Burke thought. If it’s a gag, I can go along with it for fifteen minutes, but I’ll be damned if I’ll wait up all night.
The car arrived in ten.
BURKE STOOD AT attention but squirmed inwardly as General Marshall eyed him coldly. Despite being in the War Plans department and working in the Pentagon, Burke had never before met the man, although he had seen him on a number of occasions. Marshall was aloof, austere, correct, and had a reputation, perhaps undeserved, for personal coldness.
“Relax and sit down, Colonel.”
Burke did sit as he was told, although it was difficult to relax in the presence of the four-star general who gave directions to both Eisenhower and, when possible, to MacArthur, who thought himself superior to everyone. He had been driven directly to Marshall’s office at the Pentagon and an aide had whisked him immediately into the general’s presence. He still had no idea why he was there in the spartan office.
“Colonel, you are purported to be an expert on Russia. Why?”
The bluntness of the question startled Burke, but he recovered. “Sir, prior to enlisting, I was a professor of Russian history at Notre Dame. The subject has always fascinated me, particularly the upheavals of the revolution and after.”
“How did you get into War Plans?”
“After Pearl Harbor, I thought I should enlist. Since the army doesn’t want thirty-six-year-old privates and I was too old for normal officer training, I was turned down. Fortunately, a friend of mine knew Eisenhower and submitted a résumé. The general thought the War Plans group should have someone with my background on the staff, and I was appointed.” He flushed slightly. “I was given the immediate rank of captain, and as the war effort grew, I was promoted to major and, most recently of course, to lieutenant colonel.”
“Are you comfortable with that, Colonel?”
“Not really, General. I like to think I’m doing a good job, but I keep telling myself I’m a college professor in a costume. I’m not a professional soldier. Sir, I am no more a soldier then I am a Martian, and I sometimes feel uncomfortable when people confuse me with anyone who has actually served his country and been in combat.”
Marshall’s expression softened. “And you doubtless don’t want to be a professional soldier for the rest of your life, or actually see combat, either. Yet you’re an expert on the Russian military?”
“Sir, I have to amend that. I have memorized all the names, weapons, statistics, and organizations that I could get my hands on, but no, I am not an expert on the Russian army. There are others who are far more qualified than I am in that area. My area of expertise is in Russian culture, the current Russian mentality, and how they got that way. The history of Russia, sir, is one of tumult and torment, and they are a people who behave quite differently from us.
“Sir, I was told that military intelligence can rather easily tell of a country’s capabilities, but gauging its intent to use those capabilities is quite another matter, and that’s where my so-called expertise comes in. Just because a nation possesses an army does not necessarily indicate it will use it.”
“Have you studied Stalin?” Marshall asked softly.
“Yes, sir. As extensively as is possible.”
“Ever met him? Ever been to Russia?”
“No to both questions, General. I hope to rectify that after the war.”
“Colonel, my staff tells me you are rather unique and somewhat unpopular because of opinions you hold regarding our erstwhile ally, Russia, and its leader. Would you please give me your opinion regarding Stalin’s state of mind.”
Wow, Burke thought. Where the hell is this going? “General, in my opinion Stalin is certifiably insane. He is a cruel and calculating mass murderer. If he were in this country, he would be locked up in an insane asylum, hanged for his crimes, or be some gangland boss in Chicago.”
Marshall almost smiled. “Colonel, a few months ago, our political leaders met and carved up postwar Europe. Now it looks like the man FDR used to refer to as Uncle Joe may be taking a larger piece of the pie then he’s entitled to. Does that surprise you?”
“Absolutely not, sir. That would be consistent with his behavior.”
Marshall nodded. “It now appears that he might not let us have our share of Berlin. Along with that, he’s taking over countries that rightly belong to their inhabitants. In order to forestall this, I have been ordered to send a military force to Berlin to try and enter that city. As a rationale, we are telling Stalin that we are doing it to continue pressure on the Germans, thus preventing them from swinging their armies around to take on the advancing Russian armies. However, there is concern that Stalin will see this as a provocative attempt on our part to take credit for ending the war, credit that he believes is rightfully his. In your opinion, what do you think he would perceive and how would he react?”
Burke paled. He swallowed and composed himself. “Sir, I said the man is mad and a criminal and I stand by that, which means he is impossible to predict logically. Among other things, he is paranoid, and yes, he might just see it as a power grab on our part. As to how he might react, good God, sir, the man is normally very patient and calculating, but, on rare occasions, has appeared to act irrationally. What will he do? I have no idea.”
“Guess,” Marshall said firmly.
Burke took a deep breath and thought, what the hell. “He’s a bully and if confronted could easily back down and wait for an opportunity to try again. I rather think that would make everyone happy.” Marshall did not respond, but seemed to nod almost imperceptibly. “If he doesn’t back down, he could use his massive army to swat our force like flies.”
“Which, Colonel?” Marshall insisted. “I want your opinion.”
Burke tried not to stammer. “He operates from a position of strength. He cannot afford to show weakness. I think he’ll use force to expel us from Berlin. God help those poor soldiers.”
Marshall rose and did not appear to notice it when a thoroughly stunned Burke remained seated. “Colonel, thank you for your help. You will be driven back to your apartment. Be in my office at eight in the morning.”
“BERLIN,” WHOOPED PFC Tommy Crawford, a gangly kid from Georgia. “We goin’ to Berlin!”
Sitting on the ground, Sergeant Jack Logan could only shake his head in wonderment. Where the hell did some of the kids think they were going? To the circus? Crawford was a scarcely literate nineteen-year-old from some squalid little place south of Atlanta and, until a few months ago, had never been more then ten miles from his home. Now he had been to New York, L
ondon, Paris, and maybe was on his way to Berlin on his government-paid world tour. Logan still didn’t think Crawford realized all these cities were in Europe. Maybe he didn’t realize what Europe was?
“Sergeant?”
“Yeah, Lieutenant?” To Logan, Singer looked shaken and pale.
“Tell me about combat.”
Logan looked at the line of tanks forming to head out, and the trucks that would carry the infantry. The Sherman tanks looked strong and dangerous, but the cloth-sided trucks appeared horribly vulnerable. Even the Shermans’ strength was somewhat illusory. The stubby little 75 mm guns they carried just weren’t strong enough to knock out the newest and biggest kraut tanks, and their thin armor and high silhouettes made them easy victims.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“You’ve been in combat, haven’t you? What’s it like? How do you react?”
Logan patted the ground. “Have a seat, sir.” When Singer made himself comfortable, he continued. “Lieutenant, the first time I was in so-called combat it was a few months ago and a mortar shell landed a couple of hundred yards away, and we all fell flat and hugged the ground for as long as we could. We’d still be lying there if someone hadn’t told us it was safe to get up. Y’know, I have no idea where the shell came from or if it was even German and not one of our own.
“The second time, there was a report of a sniper in a grove in front of us and the entire platoon fired twenty or thirty rounds each into the trees. I don’t know if we hit the sniper, if there ever was one, but we scared the hell out of a bunch of trees and it felt damn good to be firing back.”
“You mean you’ve never seen a German in all this time?” Singer was incredulous.
“Sure I have. Dead ones and prisoners. But have I ever had the privilege of confronting one who was coming at me with bayonet fixed or aiming up a shot at me? No. Maybe I did see a few of them. Sometimes you see motion in the night where there isn’t supposed to be any, or you see shapes running like hell in the distance, but you can’t be certain whether they are krauts or civilians or, in the case of nighttime, just a case of the jitters.”
“You’re not a big help, Sergeant. Captain Dimitri said you were supposed to advise me.” Singer’s grin was shaky.
“Sorry, Lieutenant.”
Logan hadn’t told him the whole truth. He would have to learn for himself about bowel-emptying fear and the horror of seeing a friend blown to little red pieces. There were some things you had to live for yourself and could not describe for others. Sergeant Logan, D Company, and the entire division had been in Europe since January 1945, a mere four months. At least they had missed out on the big German attack in the Ardennes, but they and he had been involved in a number of minor skirmishes that could be as deadly as one of those major and climactic battles historians were going to discuss for generations.
Singer laughed quietly. “Captain Dimitri told me to stick with you because you were such a combat veteran.”
Captain Dimitri chose that moment to stop by and squatted on the ground next to them. Singer remembered not to stand up and snap to attention like so many new men did. Dimitri, like most experienced officers, did not like actions that drew unnecessary attention to them in a combat zone. Dimitri also carried a rifle instead of the .45 automatic he was entitled to, again so he wouldn’t stand out to a sniper. Snipers loved shooting officers.
“What’s so funny?” Dimitri asked. “You people haven’t decided that this monumental adventure we are about to depart on is a joke, now, have you?”
Before Lieutenant Singer could form a reply, Logan answered. “No, sir, we haven’t gotten that far. We were just discussing why I am qualified as a combat instructor. But now that you mention it, this does have all the earmarks of a fiasco.”
Dimitri half smiled. “Better a fiasco than a tragedy. But why, Sergeant Logan?”
“Captain, because we’re sending one long column up one thin road toward Berlin. It can be blocked or ambushed at any place or at any time. Didn’t the British get their asses all chewed up trying to do something similar near Arnhem a while ago? Worse, it looks like someone got armor and mounted infantry all mixed up together, although at least the lead infantry are in half-tracks, which will provide some protection against small arms if they’re shot at. Unfortunately, the rest of us have to ride in trucks, and canvas sides won’t stop a peashooter. Frankly, sir, I’d rather walk.”
“Can’t,” said Dimitri. “We wouldn’t be able to keep up with the high-speed convoy that will soon be racing down those excellent German roads toward Berlin.”
Both Logan and Singer caught the note of sarcasm in the captain’s voice. Nobody was going to race. The move forward would be slow and cautious. “At least,” Singer said, “we won’t be in the lead group, where the action will likely take place.”
Captain Dimitri rose to leave and shouldered his carbine. “Tell him, Sergeant Logan,” he said as he walked on.
“Tell me what?” Singer asked as the captain departed. He had the terrible feeling that the captain and the sergeant, who went back a ways together, were laughing at him. Somehow, he didn’t really mind it. They were the experienced soldiers and not he, and, despite Logan’s protestations, the sergeant was a solid and respected soldier.
“Sir,” said Logan, “if you were a German unit setting up an ambush, which would you prefer to attack, the heavily armored and protected head of the column, or those soft, fat, and dumb trucks?”
Singer shook his head sadly. “You go for the trucks. Then the head of the column would have to hold up and wait until things got sorted out. Damn. Maybe we should volunteer for point. I promised my wife’s parents that I’d keep her as a JAP, and I’d like a chance to keep that promise.”
“What’s a JAP?” Logan asked, feeling that Singer was teasing him.
Singer grinned. “Jewish American Princess. And I do think it’d be best to be the lead dog.”
“That’s right,” said Logan. “And if they do set up a roadblock to delay the point of the column, then the rest of us will have to stop and wait for it to be cleared. Sitting ducks is the phrase I think fits best.”
“Shit. Well, intelligence says the Germans are gone.”
“Lieutenant,” laughed Logan, “with all respects to the fine men in G-2, I will believe that when pigs fly.”
Singer was puzzled. “Sergeant Logan, how come you’re not an officer? You are certainly intelligent enough, and I understand you do have a couple years of college.”
Logan shrugged. “At one time I thought I was going to be an officer. I tested out okay and put in the papers for Officer Candidate School down at Fort Benning, but we all got shipped out before anything could happen. My tough luck, I guess. At any rate, I can’t complain. I got my three stripes fast enough and, now that I’m a platoon sergeant, I think they owe me one more.”
Singer got up and left, saying he was going to write a quick note to his wife before they moved out, and Logan wondered what kind of woman he’d married. Lieutenant Singer was short and a little plump. Logan wondered if his wife was short and plump as well. He shook his head. No way he should start fantasizing about his lieutenant’s unseen bride. He stood and shook the dirt off the seat of his pants. Time to get his squad together and make sure the new lieutenant didn’t get lost on the way to Berlin.
Logan guessed he was flattered that it was he who was assigned as Singer’s babysitter until the man got the necessary experience. First Sergeant Krenski was just as happy to have the virgin Lieutenant Singer out of the way until he learned the lay of the land and could actually begin leading.
Logan looked again at the line of tanks now moving slowly down the road preparatory to jumping off for Berlin. The tanks, even with their high silhouettes and stubby guns, still looked strong and powerful. So how come he had this feeling of foreboding?
THE SMALL ROOM in the Kremlin was brightly lit by the sun streaming through the high glass windows, which had been built in the days before electricity
. The glare caused Josef Stalin to blink as he entered. The other two men ignored the premier’s momentary discomfort as he moved behind the desk and seated himself. Stalin, who was quite short, liked to be seated when in the company of others. The first of the two men was the bespectacled Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov, who at age fifty-five held the official title of Commissar for Foreign Affairs, although he fulfilled whatever duties Stalin assigned him.
The second man was Lavrentii Pavlovich Beria, the squinty-eyed and reptilian chief of state security, the dreaded NKVD. He held the rank of marshal. Beria’s army consisted of border guards and, most important, those men whose duty was to hold the regular army commanders responsible for their loyalty. Virtually at will or whim, they could shoot deserters or execute officers for failure to accomplish tasks. It hardly mattered whether the tasks were achievable. The NKVD considered failure as treason. Along with enjoying torturing people, rumor also had it that Beria was fond of small children.
Molotov and Beria waited impassively while Stalin stripped the tobacco from a couple of cigarettes, tamped the shreds into the bowl of an old pipe he habitually used, and lighted it. Each of the two men knew his place. They were Stalin’s key advisers, but not trusted ones. Stalin trusted no one. Each knew that one misstep could result in his own personal destruction. They both knew what screaming horrors were in store for those who found themselves the targets of Stalin’s wrath, and whose lives ended in the basement of the NKVD’s Lubyanka prison. Even Beria, who administered the Lubyanka, knew he was only a word away from dying there.
Stalin blew out a cloud of noxious smoke. “You’ve read this man Truman’s message. What do you think?”
Molotov knew he had to speak first. “Incredible,” he said, and Beria nodded.
“Comrade Molotov, I expected more of a response.”
Robert Conroy Page 2