Robert Conroy

by Red Inferno: 1945: A Novel

  Tony was driving with the hatch open and his head and shoulders outside. This gave him an excellent view forward, although he could not see the eleven other tanks behind or the twenty lightly armored half-tracks that, full of infantry, followed the tanks. The area had been quiet and he was not particularly concerned about snipers.

  “Hey, Toad.” It was Ernie the gunner. “What do you see?”

  “Eva Braun dancing naked and calling out for you to fuck her,” Tony responded. If Ernie wanted to see what was in front, all he had to do was open the turret hatch and look. Fortunately for Tony, Brentwood usually ignored such idle banter between his crew. Brentwood was not totally stupid and knew it helped keep them sane.

  The tank moved around a charred building, and there was a great deal of open space before it. In the distance, Tony could see a number of shapes and he stopped the tank abruptly, causing everyone to lurch forward and swear. “Tanks!” he yelled.

  “Jesus,” Brentwood said. “How many do you make, Corporal?”

  Tony started counting and also started shaking. “I see thirty but there may be more coming through the dust.”

  “Where the hell did the Germans get them?” Brentwood muttered. There was a degree of silence as the rest of the column had halted behind Tony’s lead tank.

  “Sir,” Tony said, an unsettling fear filling him. “They aren’t German. Those are Russians. That silhouette belongs to a T34.”

  “Bullshit,” the colonel said. “The Reds can’t be this far west. Those are German Panthers, not T34s. They just look a lot alike.”

  Tony admitted that possibility. Their silhouettes were very similar from a distance. A spotter plane radioed that a large number of tanks was headed toward them, but didn’t specify nationality.

  Brentwood prudently ordered them to take up defensive positions. What had started out as a public relations stunt now had the potential to be a disaster.

  Tony was shaking. This had all the earmarks of a bloody mistake. “Sir, I still think those are Commies.”

  Brentwood was puzzled. The dust kicked up by the approaching tanks obscured any insignia. “We can’t take chances. They have to be German. We’ll treat them as if they are the enemy.”

  And even if they are, we’re in deep shit, Tony thought. Even though many of the American Sherman tanks had been improved with a higher-velocity main gun, they still didn’t stand a chance against a Panther. Or a T34 for that matter.

  The unknown tanks were in range. Tony saw a flash of light. Was it gunfire? Were the other tanks shooting at them?

  “Goddamn Germans are shooting at us,” Brentwood yelled.

  “I still think they’re Russians, Colonel,” Tony said.

  “Then why the hell are they shooting at us and why the hell are you arguing with me?”

  Tony winced. He had gone too far. Now there would be no reasoning with the colonel.

  “Open fire,” Brentwood ordered, and a dozen American guns blasted. At long range, only a couple of enemy tanks were hit and they weren’t damaged.

  At that moment, the spotter plane’s pilot confirmed that the tanks were Russians and might be shooting at a German position. Brentwood paled and Tony declined to say I told you so.

  Brentwood grabbed him by the shoulder. “Toad, get the hell out there with a flag while I contact division.”

  Though reluctant to leave the relative security of the tank’s armored womb, Tony clambered out onto the ground and pulled out the bag that contained a good-sized American flag and a collapsible pole. Many of these had been distributed so they could identify themselves visually should the need arise. Tony thought the need was now absolutely imperative and scrambled to connect it to the pole. He looked around and saw crewmen from a number of American tanks and half-tracks doing the same thing. There was a decent breeze and the flags unfurled themselves so that even a blind Russian could see them.

  The Russian tanks continued to close on them and he could now see they had infantry trotting alongside. He counted more than the thirty tanks he first saw and many more were still coming into view, and they were definitely within range. Why hadn’t they shot at them? Were they concerned about killing Americans? Christ, he hoped so.

  Suddenly, the Russian tanks opened fire. Dozens of guns barked, their sound barely preceding the stunning concussion of their shells impacting around him.

  Tony clambered onto the hull as the tank began to back up. He could hear Brentwood screaming into the radio that he was being attacked by Russians. Tony was just about to climb down the hatch into his tank when the shock of a near miss threw him to the ground and rolled him away from his Sherman. He tried to rise again, but his tank took a hit. It lifted off the ground, then settled with a crash. For a moment he thought he was dead. He wasn’t, but his tank had been killed. It was burning furiously and the intense heat drove him back. The turret hatch opened and a living torch tried to crawl out. Tony watched in horror as the blackened, burning thing with no face moved a little, twitched, and stopped halfway out. Tony thought it was Ernie, but he couldn’t be sure. Asshole Brentwood was doubtless still cooking inside the tank.

  He gagged from the sight and the stench of burning flesh. He crawled farther away from the Sherman and then looked around. A half-dozen other American tanks were also in flames, as were a couple of half-tracks. The sound of ammunition exploding inside the Shermans told him he was ungodly fortunate to be alive. The remainder of the American vehicles were running away from the one-sided battle as quickly as they could. He looked at the rapidly closing Reds and didn’t see any of their tanks on fire or stopped.

  There were some other Americans lying on the ground around him. Most of them were quite still and only a couple were moving their arms or trying to rise. Tony checked himself and realized that he was basically unhurt. Bruises and cuts didn’t count in a disaster like this.

  He looked at the Russian tanks. They were advancing faster toward him than he could ever think of running. They were outstripping their own infantry, which was rapidly being left behind. He whimpered without realizing it and settled himself to wait for whatever the Russians might do.

  The sound of airplane engines from behind him caused him to look up quickly as a pair of American P-47 fighter-bombers roared only a few feet overhead. Their machine guns chewed through the Russian infantry but did no harm to the tanks. The fighters banked sharply and began strafing the rear of the Russian tanks and firing their five-inch rockets. This time the Russian tanks suffered. Less heavily armored in the top and rear, several of them took hits and exploded.

  “Kill the bastards!” Tony yelled.

  In a moment, however, the two planes were out of rockets and ammunition. He watched sadly as they flew off, leaving the field to the Russians. For a second time, he sat and waited for the inevitable, knowing full well that the Reds would be pissed at the aerial attack and would likely take it out on potential prisoners.

  Thus, he watched incredulously as the Russian column veered away from the killing ground and turned off on a mission of its own. He stood up and unconsciously dusted himself off. He was alive. Damned alone, but alive. Find a weapon, he told himself, and get the hell out of here. And oh yeah, just who the hell was the enemy, the Germans or the Russians?

  He found an M1 Garand on a body from a half-track and took it along with a couple of clips of ammunition. He looked at the wounded. Only a couple were still alive and he didn’t think they would last long. Maybe the Reds would find them and care for them. There sure as hell wasn’t anything he could do.

  He swore and half sobbed in frustration as he walked quickly away. Damn Brentwood and his run for glory, and damn the Russians.

  CHAPTER 6

  The first hint of an attack was the screaming sound of airplane engines and the chatter of machine guns as a wave of Russian fighters flew low over them, strafing them.

  “Those are Russian Stormoviks,” yelled Singer as they hunched in their hastily dug foxholes.

  In his own hole a
few feet away, Logan didn’t give a shit what type of planes they were, just so long as they didn’t shoot him.

  Unimpeded by any opposition, the Red planes made pass after pass, hitting tanks and mangling other vehicles. Some attempt was made to shoot at them with machine guns and other small arms, but with no apparent effect. He watched incredulously as a stream of machine-gun bullets bounced off the armored belly of one low-flying Russian plane. The Russians had flying tanks, he thought.

  Logan slowly realized he was fairly safe in his burrow. The planes were destroying vehicles, not looking for red-haired platoon sergeants. Even so, the air was alive with a hot rain of flying debris and metal fragments that could kill as quickly as a well-aimed bullet. He fought the urge to continue looking around and tucked his head down so that his steel pot protected it. He cupped his balls with his hands and wished he had another helmet for them as well. A lot of guys protected their testicles with their helmets, instead of their skulls. A helluva choice to make, he thought.

  Jack could hear the screams and moans of the wounded. An explosion sent another shower of debris onto him and he heard an animal-like shriek that was almost in his ear. Doubtless one of his men, but which one? And where the hell were the American planes? Thank God they’d had enough warning time to dig in at least a little bit. Had the enemy planes caught them on the road and in their trucks, the slaughter would have been unimaginable. As it was, it would be bad enough.

  As suddenly as they had arrived, the Red planes were gone, their ammunition spent. Logan jumped out of his hole and started to check his men when the cry of “medic” came from only a few feet away. He recognized Crawford’s voice and ran to where the young PFC was cradling a bloody Lieutenant Singer.

  “Aw, Christ,” Logan said as he saw the mangled ruin of Singer’s left arm. Bloody bones and muscle were visible, and they were connected to his upper arm and shoulder by only a few threads of flesh and gray muscle. Singer’s face was pale and he appeared to be unconscious. With Crawford’s help, Logan attached a tourniquet and tried to make Singer as comfortable as possible. He covered him with a blanket to prevent shock until he could get a medic or take him to a hospital tent. If there were any hospitals, he thought.

  Having done what he could, Logan checked the rest of his men and found only one other slightly wounded. Fearful of leaving his comrades, that soldier refused to go to the rear. Logan didn’t have time to argue and left him with his buddies.

  The road was littered with damaged and burning vehicles of all types, and many were surrounded by the fragmentary and smoking remains of their crews.

  Logan was vomiting on the ground when Captain Dimitri found him. Dimitri’s face was one of controlled fury. “Where the hell is Singer?”

  “Badly wounded, Captain. I think he’s gonna lose his arm.”

  “Goddamnit.”

  “Captain, how bad off are we?”

  Dimitri shook his head. He was having difficulty comprehending the magnitude of what had just occurred. “Looks like a half dozen killed in the company and maybe twice that many wounded. It’s bad, but it could have been a lot worse. Do you hear the big guns?”

  Logan hadn’t. Concentrating entirely on his own problems, he had been unaware of the crash and rumble of artillery fire that was coming from the west of their position back toward the Elbe.

  “Those poor bastards down there,” Dimitri said, “are really getting clobbered. Battalion says they are being hit by waves of armor. At least we’ve been spared that.” Dimitri smiled wryly. “Thank God for small favors.”

  Captain Dimitri told Logan where he could find some help for Singer and departed to continue checking on the rest of his company. What the hell is going on? Logan thought. Just a little while ago we were all planning on going home. Now the Russians have attacked. Do we have a whole new war? Against Russia? He had heard of the size and ferocity of the Russian military and had no urge to test the truth of the stories.

  Logan and the rest of his platoon stayed in their positions for a couple of hours until they saw the familiar form of Captain Dimitri again approaching. He could tell from the look on the captain’s face that they would be moving and there would be new holes to dig.

  “Logan,” Dimitri snapped. “You’re in charge, at least for the time being. Take a couple of men and a jeep down the road and see what’s happened to our armor and if the Russians are coming.”

  “I sure as hell hope they aren’t, Captain,” he said, and Dimitri grunted.

  Twenty minutes later, Logan’s slowly moving jeep found what appeared to be the point of the column. Ruined and burning tanks and half-tracks littered the field along with a number of bodies. There was no sign of the Russians. A small blessing, Logan thought. They were out there, and he wondered if Red Army scouts were watching him and his jeep and wondering if they should kill him. Now I know how someone who’s paranoid feels, he thought.

  They got out and walked around, checking to make sure that no American was still alive. None were. There were too many dead to take back in the jeep. Jack hated to leave them, but had no choice.

  “Sarge, I think we should go,” said Crawford.

  Logan concurred. They were well ahead of their column and the only people to their front would be Russians. They’d stayed long enough and were pushing their luck. A burst of machine-gun fire chewed up the ground near them, punctuating their thoughts.

  “Agreed. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  There was no more firing from the unseen Russian gun. Maybe the Reds were taunting them. What the hell was happening? Goddamnit, Logan snarled silently. They were supposed to be going home soon.

  • • •

  WOLFGANG VON SCHUMANN watched incredulously as the attack on the Americans took place about a mile away from where he and his flock huddled along the riverbank. It was incredible, like watching a pageant unfolding. The Russians and the Americans were fighting each other. He recalled an officer in an SS unit a long time ago saying that Hitler believed the Anglo-American-Russian alliance against the Third Reich was so fragile that it would shatter into brawling fragments before the Allies could destroy Germany.

  Had Hitler been right? If so, what did this mean for Germany? For that matter, von Schumann wondered, was Hitler still alive to appreciate the situation? For what the führer had done to his beloved Germany, von Schumann fervently wished death for Hitler. Whatever approval he had once felt for the führer and the Nazi regime had disappeared in the snows of Stalingrad and the refuse dump where overworked surgeons had cut off and thrown away his gangrenous leg.

  He looked again at the people who had chosen to follow him out of the city. They were uniformly filthy, ragged, thin, and terrified. He looked to where he could see the young woman, Elisabeth, and the boy. The boy looked intrigued by everything that was going on around him, while the girl looked a little better than earlier. Amazing what some broth, a small piece of bread, and the realization that you are not alone can do for a person’s health and sense of well-being.

  She saw him watching her and ventured a shy smile. Von Schumann nodded at her and smiled back. She was young enough to be his daughter and pretty enough with her un-German black hair. The thought of his daughter sent a stab of pain through him. Where was she? Where was his wife, Hilda? He knew it would be a long time, if ever, before he would be able to find out. The last letter from them had been more than a year ago and it said they were heading for Hamburg. Hamburg had been destroyed by bombs and fire. Had they been consumed as well?

  Elisabeth watched as von Schumann turned and hobbled away. For the first time in weeks she was not afraid. Instead of lurking and skulking in the cellars and tunnels of her apartment complex in Berlin, she was out in the air and actually doing something. Better, she had found people who would help her and Pauli survive this horror. Her gums didn’t hurt as much, nor did her joints. The women in the group had adopted the two of them, and a number of food scraps easily became a meal. For the first time since leaving Berlin
she felt that she might just survive and that both she and Pauli might have a future.

  Pauli stared at the departing von Schumann. “Is he our new papa?”

  For the first time in weeks, Elisabeth laughed, causing others to turn and glance at her in case she had gone mad. “No, Pauli. He is not our new papa. He is a friend, a very good friend.”

  Pauli nodded solemnly and prepared to digest that piece of information. He dug a piece of stale bread from his pocket and began chewing on it.

  But what in God’s name was von Schumann talking about? The ever-present sounds of battle meant nothing to her. She’d presumed that the Germans were fighting the Russians. But had he said that the Americans and the Russians were fighting each other? Even though the Russians were animals, they were on the same side as the Americans. If they were indeed fighting each other, what did that mean to her feelings of safety?

  Foreboding returned. “I think we might have gone from the frying pan into the fire,” she said.

  Pauli looked puzzled. “Is somebody frying something?”

  MORE THAN FIFTY people were jammed in the smoke-filled conference room in the West Wing of the White House, filling it well beyond capacity. When Steve Burke arrived along with General Marshall and a number of other army officers, Truman was already there. To his surprise, Marshall formally introduced Burke to Truman and reminded the president that he was the man who had received the message from the Russian.

  “I didn’t have a chance to tell you before, Colonel, but it was a good job,” Truman said tersely and shook his hand. “Your quick actions may have saved a lot of our boys’ lives.”

  Burke had found out a little earlier that he was being put in for a commendation, perhaps even a medal, for his actions that night. While pleased, he was a little embarrassed. All he had done was blunder into the event with Korzov, who, he had later been informed, had suddenly taken “ill” and was on his way back to the Soviet Union before the fighting started. The poor bastard’s treachery had likely been found out and he would be lucky to get a bullet in the head.