Molotov found himself sweating and knew it wasn’t the heat. “It is as if it were Churchill speaking and not Truman. With Roosevelt dead, there appears to be a degree of confusion in the White House.” Again, Beria nodded.
“Comrade Molotov, do you know Truman?”
“I met him briefly, but I do not know him well at all. Few do. As you know, he came from nowhere, a political nothing.”
It was not quite a lie. Molotov had racked his brain and been unable to recall meeting Truman at any time, but concluded that it was prudent to say he must have met the former senator from Missouri who was, until very recently, the almost anonymous vice president of the United States.
Stalin relit his pipe. “Yet I am expected to believe this nonsense? That, in the name of our sacred and fraternal alliance against the Hitlerites, the Americans are going to send two full divisions into Berlin as a favor to us? I suspect the treacherous hand of Churchill in this American action. He has coerced the Americans into taking Berlin from the rear and robbing us of our glory in being the ones to take it from the Hitlerites. I suspect that the American divisions will not only try to liberate Berlin, but will also attempt to liberate Hitler and his coterie of lackeys, and use them for their own purposes. Hitler has tried for so very long to split the alliance and sue for a separate peace, and now it appears he has succeeded.”
“But why, Comrade Stalin?” Beria asked. Only his eyes betrayed any sense of nervousness.
Stalin stared at him coldly. “Because Churchill hates us almost as much as he hates the Nazis, perhaps even more. Now that Germany is defeated, he feels he can move to stop us from becoming too powerful, and he has convinced this Truman thing to go along. Do you doubt me?”
“No,” they answered in unison.
“It is utter arrogance. We will not let them rob us of our rightful vengeance. It will be stopped.”
Stalin rose and looked out the window onto the sunny but empty courtyard. “I will contact Marshals Zhukov and Koniev to discuss the final drive on Berlin. We have waited years for this moment and we will not be denied. We will be the ones to take Berlin and destroy the Hitlerite nest, not the Americans. We will not let them liberate a thing. The Americans will be stopped before Berlin, whatever the consequences and regardless of the lies they give as their intentions.”
Stalin glanced at the clock on the wall. It was midafternoon. “In a few hours, we will commence the greatest bombardment the world has ever seen. Then more then two and a half million men will assault Berlin and drive toward the Elbe. I will inform both Zhukov and Koniev that they are to expedite the pincers movement behind Berlin and seal off the rear approaches to Berlin.”
Molotov, normally impassive, paled. “But, Comrade Stalin, what if the Americans are already in Berlin or within the pincers?”
Stalin smiled tightly. “Then so be it. The Americans will squeal very loudly and learn a lesson.”
“WHAT IS THE comrade tank commander staring at this fine night, this most wonderful of evenings, which signals the end of the Nazi empire?”
Commander Sergei Suslov climbed down from the dark turret of the T34 tank and stretched his tired muscles like a cat.
“Comrade driver,” he said with a tired grin to his slightly insane crewman Ivan Latsis, “I was staring at Germany across the lovely Oder River and wondering how much longer they can possibly hold out against our armies.”
They glanced across the clearly visible river where hundreds of flashes of light on the heights overlooking them showed where shells were impacting with horrible regularity. Each man had to speak clearly, as the noise level was deafening. Suslov wondered how it could be endured.
“They are not responding to our barrage,” Latsis said.
If that was the case, Suslov could not blame them. His company, his brigade, were part of the largest army the world had ever seen. It had more men, tanks, guns, and planes than could have ever been dreamed of only a few years prior, and had been accumulating and gathering its strength along the Oder for what would surely be the final assault on Berlin, only thirty miles away.
Suslov said, “They have very likely withdrawn from their fortifications, which we are so intently bombarding, and will not return to them until the advance units start to cross the Oder. Only then will they respond to our invitation to do battle.”
The Germans on the hills had an excellent view of the Russian preparations, but had chosen not to waste ammunition on them or to give away the location of their few remaining heavy guns. Suslov could not complain about that decision on their part, nor could he complain about the fact that he and his armored brigade would not be part of the first wave. Instead, they would follow once a bridgehead had been secured and would be part of the breakout.
Latsis was constantly brooding, his face looking particularly dour in the flickering lights of the distant explosions. “I hear a rumor that we won’t be allowed to attack Berlin, that the honor will fall to others.”
Suslov shrugged and tried not to see the hate on the other man’s face. “It would be an honor I could do without. Tanks are meant to fight in the open, not in streets. I had all the city fighting I could ever want at Stalingrad.”
Latsis agreed reluctantly. The name of Stalingrad was both sacred and evocative of slaughter on a mass scale. Suslov had taken another tank and crew through the battle, been wounded, and returned to duty as this tank’s new commander a few months earlier.
“Even so,” Latsis insisted, “I would like the opportunity to destroy a portion of the city and the people inside it.”
“I know,” Suslov said gently.
Latsis had told them several times what had happened to his village when the Nazis took it. It was not just that the people had been killed, but how they had died. Slaughtered was the better word, although even that was inadequate to describe the rape and torture that had preceded death in so many cases. Latsis was obsessed with the fact that both his mother and his sister had been gang-raped and mutilated by a bunch of Nazis, and left to die. He had found through the handful of survivors that his thirteen-year-old sister had lived in screaming agony for a few days after, but that his mother had died almost immediately.
Suslov slapped Latsis on the shoulder in an attempt to break his driver’s dark mood. “Don’t worry, there’s more of Germany than just one city. You’ll have your opportunity to make them squeal.”
Latsis grunted and moved away, leaving Suslov to wonder just what was in store for those Germans in Berlin. There were hundreds of thousands of Russians with stories just as horrible as the one Latsis told. As for himself, he had no love for the Nazis, nor hatred either. He just wanted them dead so he could go home. That is, if there was a home for him anywhere in this mutilated world.
CHAPTER 3
Major General Walter Bedell Smith, “Beetle” to his friends, was a short and belligerent man who some compared to a bulldog with a bad attitude. As chief of staff to Dwight David Eisenhower, he served at Ike’s pleasure and frequently did the tough and dirty jobs that preserved his boss’s benevolent and affable reputation. His input was received and respected. That included this afternoon’s meeting between Omar Bradley, who commanded the huge Twelfth Army Group, and Eisenhower, who commanded all the Allied military forces in Europe except the Russians.
“Shut the door, Beetle.” Smith did as Ike asked.
Eisenhower was grim as he paced the floor of his office. “Brad, what do you think?” Ike asked.
“I don’t like it one bit.” Bradley was tall and lean. He was rarely seen smiling in public. Despite this, he was considered a friendly man, and was delighted when soldiers started calling him the “GI’s General.”
Ike nodded. “Good, so what have you done about it?”
Bradley walked to the map. “I’ve given Simpson orders that he is to do as much as is humanly possible to avoid casualties and unexpected contact with either the Germans or the Reds. The 17th Armored and 54th Infantry divisions have crossed the Elbe above Magdeburg
and, unlike the previous crossing, have met almost no resistance. Unless you object, they will be the force that moves on Berlin. They will pick up the autobahn and follow it toward Berlin. However, just south and west of Potsdam, the autobahn branches, with one route going to the Spandau district, which is on the outskirts. We will take the Spandau route and not charge into the heart of the battle for the city.”
Ike nodded and lit a cigarette. For the last year he had been chain-smoking. “Good.”
Bradley continued. “That will put us in Berlin proper, but a long ways from where Hitler is hiding and where the Reds will be making their main assault. The river, the Havel, will help separate us from that battle and any accidental involvement.”
“Are they up to strength?” Beetle asked.
“The 17th Armored is a new division with very little combat experience, and is pretty well up to snuff as far as men and equipment go, but the 54th has been in action since January and has been worn down a bit, but it’s still in good shape. I’m sending Chris Miller from my staff to command. He’s a good, solid man who won’t make any mistakes and who won’t go off like a cowboy.”
Ike liked Bradley’s thinking. It would satisfy the political need to be in Berlin without actually being in the dangerous heart of the city. Hopefully, the Reds would understand the American army was not going to interfere with their vengeance.
Smith stared at the map and smiled. “Gatow?”
This time the corners of Bradley’s mouth did rise in satisfaction. Gatow, along with Tempelhof, was one of the two major airports serving Berlin, and it was in the Spandau district, right along the line of American advance.
“Well,” Bradley said. “I couldn’t see us not having an airport to use if we actually got there. Tempelhof’s on the other side of town and the Russians will own it soon enough, but Gatow could easily be ours.”
“Brad, what if our boys can’t advance? The Germans could slow them fairly easily.”
“Ike, my orders to Simpson and to Miller and those boys are very simple. They go to Spandau safely or not at all. This is not a suicide mission and they are not, under any circumstances, to do anything foolish. If German resistance is too great, they are to stop and dig in. If it looks like they are going to get overwhelmed by the Germans, they are to cut bait and run back to the Elbe as fast as their legs will carry them.”
Smith shook his head. “Truman might not like that.”
“Screw Truman,” said Ike, and Bradley laughed. Eisenhower’s carefully nurtured image as a fresh-faced country boy was not quite correct. Decades of military service had taught him to swear fluently.
Bradley teased. “Ike, you’d better not let the boys from Life magazine hear you talk like that.”
Ike grinned the now famous cheerful smile. “Fuck Life.”
• • •
THE RIPPING SCREECH and clang of bullets hitting metal jarred them from their trancelike state in the truck to one of total animal alert. “Out!” screamed Logan. “Out, out, out!”
The horrifying noise continued, only now it was joined with the sounds of men screaming and crying out in fear and pain. The soldiers in the truck needed no urging as they tumbled to the ground and rolled or crawled to any fold in the earth that might provide some cover from the bullets. As the German machine guns continued, there was still more screaming.
Where the hell was the firing coming from? Logan thought. A Sherman about a hundred yards ahead responded with its own machine gun and Logan saw the tracers arc toward a farmhouse on a low hill a quarter mile away and splatter on its stone walls. In a second, the Sherman’s main gun fired and a section of the house blew away, followed by other pieces of the building as additional tank guns found the target. The machine guns inside responded with a quick burst and then fell silent as the building disintegrated into a pile of burning rubble.
Logan rolled over to where Singer lay staring wide-eyed at the house, or what was left of it. “Hey, Lieutenant, so how’d you like your first taste of battle?” Despite the apparent casualness of the question, Logan was shaking from the suddenness of the attack.
“Jesus, Logan. I was just looking at that particular house when I saw the krauts open fire from a window. God, it was so sudden!”
And so violent, Logan thought.
“And how the hell did they get inside our patrols?” Singer asked, his hands shaking too.
“Not difficult at all for a couple of Nazi fanatics who want to commit suicide. Our patrols can’t be everywhere, so they probably just hid in a basement or a closet until our men passed by.”
Logan checked his men and found them all unhurt except for a couple who complained about being trampled in the mad rush to get out of the truck. They were still alive and there was nervous joking about it. Logan looked forward a couple of trucks and grabbed Singer’s arm.
“Come on.”
Unceremoniously, he pulled the lieutenant to the truck that had recently passed them on the other side of the divided road. It had borne the brunt of the raking fire by the gunner in the house, and a half-dozen bodies lay sprawled about it, horribly torn and bleeding profusely. Medics had separated the dead and dying from those who might live, and were attempting to stop the blood that seemed to flow like thick red water from fire hydrants.
Singer paled at the sight and the stench of the smelly gore, which was already darkening and beginning to congeal. “It’s awful, Logan,” he said and tried not to gag.
“I know, Lieutenant, that’s why I wanted you to see it. That’s what could happen if you fuck up when you’re in charge. In this case, no one did anything wrong and certainly these guys did nothing to deserve to be shot to pieces like this. Hell, it could have been us as easily as them.”
Logan turned toward the now totally destroyed building. The actions of those few Nazi soldiers had slowed the entire column.
Dimitri’s loud voice penetrated their thoughts. “Singer, Logan, take some men up there and check it out.”
They gathered the platoon and moved up the hill, weapons at the ready. The farmhouse had been flattened and was smoking, but death could still be hiding in the ruins. They fanned out and approached it from three sides. Once close, it appeared that nothing was alive in the rubble. A charred body stuck grotesquely out of the ruins, but that was it. A blackened arm slowly moved. Someone yelled that it was still alive. A couple of men fired at the body, blowing it to bits. Satisfied, they turned and returned to the stalled column.
Attacks had happened before, but never so close. Always it was a distant chattering of machine-gun fire from up ahead or way behind, or maybe the threat of mines in the road. But never anything like this. Never right beside them. Along the way they had passed a couple of burned-out buildings and a destroyed truck, but everything human had been picked up before they arrived.
Logan shook his head grimly. “Y’know what’s worse, Lieutenant. I’m damn glad these guys weren’t from D Company. I don’t feel guilty about it. It’s like them being from another unit makes it easier to deal with.”
Singer understood. “Yeah, like they’re not even in our army and this really didn’t happen.”
They returned to their own truck and the men gathered about it. “Like I said, Lieutenant, now what do you think of combat?”
“It’s shit, Sergeant Logan, really, truly shit.”
Logan nodded. “Now will someone tell me just what the hell we’re doing here? Everybody says we’re going to fall back to the Elbe when the krauts surrender, so why did our guys have to get killed and wounded when they should have been safe and happy on the other side of that damn river? Whose idea was this?” he said angrily. “Who the hell is trying to prove a point with Stalin?”
Singer nodded. Captain Dimitri had read a letter from a general named Miller in which he spelled out the goals and objectives of what he referred to as Miller Force. It didn’t make anybody happier. The war was almost over and they were sticking their necks out. It wasn’t fair.
ELISABETH
WOLF LURCHED, seemingly drunkenly, as she forced her aching and weary legs to move. Walking more than a couple of hundred feet was something she’d been unable to do for several weeks, and the inactivity had made her soft. The lack of proper food—or any food at all, for that matter—had made her weak, and her young and once nimble joints were racked with pain. Her head pounded from pain as she and her young nephew Pauli followed the bearded and one-legged man who was going to save them. Save them from what? she wondered as her eyes tried to focus. From the Russians, she remembered. From death.
If only she knew his name, Elisabeth thought dizzily. She had been brought up to believe in God, and she wondered if the one-legged man was a saint or an angel. Maybe he was the Archangel Michael? A few feet away, the man hobbled along on his crutch, crippled in body but leading them through strength and force of will.
Behind her, she heard the rumble and thunder of the battle for the city of Berlin, the center of Nazi Germany. For several days, the artillery had been incessant and the bombing had been a nonstop drumming that shook the earth and caused buildings to disintegrate on top of their occupants, burying and crushing the people inside. It would seem a miracle if anyone was alive. Yet there were many people still hiding in their basements and shelters while others, like Pauli and herself, attempted to flee westward from the burning city.
A sharper noise intruded as something large exploded in the distance. She resisted the urge to turn around and gaze at the billowing black clouds that sometimes blotted out the sun. In her confusion, she thought she would be like Lot’s wife and be turned into a pillar of salt for her sin of inquisitiveness.
There were about fifty refugees. They stopped and she looked up ahead to see what the cause was. It was another roadblock, and the jackals from Himmler’s SS were searching for deserters. The slack body of a young man hung from a telephone pole, and she tried in vain to keep a wide-eyed Pauli from seeing it. The corpse’s eyes were open and his purple tongue stuck out.
Robert Conroy Page 3