Robert Conroy

by Red Inferno: 1945: A Novel

  Tony tried to recall just what he had said when he almost fell. Probably nothing more than a grunt instead of something in English that might have given him away. He had spoken no English out loud since the Russians had swept them up.

  It was only good fortune that Tony had been wearing German civilian clothes while they foraged, and that they had earlier hidden their weapons and the uniform they’d taken from the NKVD officer. In a fit of brilliance, Vaslov had told a Russian that Tony was an Italian worker the Germans had drafted and transported to Berlin for use as slave labor. Since Tony could speak passable Italian, and the Russians none at all, the ruse had worked so far, as Tony obligingly jabbered away incomprehensibly. Vaslov had told Ivan the Hog that he would look out for the imbecile Tony, and the Russian had shrugged his shoulders in disinterested agreement.

  Tony looked up. The guard had walked away. “We gotta get out of here. I can’t take this too much longer.”

  “Who can?” Vaslov whispered bitterly. “I think we are almost done with this section of road. If that is the case, security might be a little lax. Perhaps we can slip away tonight.”

  “Where do you think the others are?” Of the band of ten, only he and Vaslov were in this particular work group. Tony was less concerned about their personal safety than he was about the others getting captured and talking about the American who was their nominal leader.

  Once again Tony glanced about to see if anyone had heard him speak English. He knew that any number in the crew of dozens of Germans and other nationalities would gladly sell him to the Russians if they found out, and the strain was beginning to tell on him. He was particularly concerned about a dark-haired man in his late twenties who, while thin, looked healthy and appeared to have been doing all right by himself until recently. This man would periodically stop and glare at Tony.

  A whistle blew and they all froze. What now? It was far too early to quit. Nothing good was going to come of this. With abrupt gestures, the Russians urged them to form up in a semicircle. When they were gathered, a line of nine men and three women were led in front of them and forced to their knees. Their hands had been tied behind their backs and they were all linked like human sausages by a long rope. Tony gasped as he recognized three of them as his people, two of the Jews and one Pole. Even worse, a Russian officer with the now-familiar NKVD insignia stood off to the side with a swarthy-looking man who was obviously a high-ranking officer, maybe even a general.

  The NKVD man began to speak. His voice was a flat, ominous growl that needed no translation to communicate its threat. He identified himself and introduced the general, someone named Bazarian, who was in charge of the area. These people, he said as Vaslov whispered a translation, had been caught either stealing or sabotaging Russian equipment. The NKVD man also said that they had admitted to signaling the location of Russian targets to the American bombers.

  Tony looked at their bruised and swollen faces. They had been tortured and doubtless some would have agreed to anything to stop the beatings. But what about the two Jews who had been with them? Had they told the Russians anything about the group? One of them looked up and appeared to make contact with Tony through blackened and swollen eyes. The man’s mouth distorted slightly in what might have been a smile and he lowered his head.

  The NKVD man finished speaking. He drew a pistol and began walking down the line. At each prisoner, he paused for a ghoulish second before he fired once into the back of each person’s head. He paused only to reload. When he was done, the workers were ordered back to their tasks. No effort was made to pick up the bodies. They lay there swelling and stiffening in the summer heat.

  As he passed the rest of the afternoon working, Tony’s eyes would unexpectedly begin to water. The two Jews had not said a word. They had not told on him, not even to save their lives or end their suffering. What had he done to deserve that loyalty?

  At night, they were given bread and thin soup. After everyone was asleep, Vaslov turned to him and nodded. It was time. They stood and walked to where the stinking latrine trenches were. They looked about and saw no Russians, although they could hear them carousing nearby, hopefully drinking themselves into a stupor, and continued walking. Their escape was absurdly easy. They just walked away.

  Very soon, they found themselves in the middle of a small Russian motor pool. Tony paused and began unscrewing gas caps.

  “What are you doing?” Vaslov hissed. “We’ve got to get going.”

  “I’m fucking up their cars. This is for the two Jew boys.”

  Vaslov looked aghast, then chuckled and began to help pour dirt into the gas tanks. With only the smallest amount of luck they would ruin about a dozen Russian jeeps and trucks.

  Vaslov left the motor pool and dashed across an open field first while Tony watched. Just as Tony was about to rise and sprint away, he felt a hand on his mouth and the blade of a knife on his neck.

  “Don’t move,” he was told. “Make a single sound and I’ll slice your throat. If you understand me, nod.”

  Tony nodded. It was only then he realized that his captor had spoken in clear English.

  CHAPTER 18

  Sirens went off just as the sound of machine guns shattered the night. Logan jumped off his cot and tried to orient himself. Yeah, he was in the bunker and it was the middle of the night.

  More gunfire, and it was coming from the lakefront. It was in their rear. Dear God. Had the Russians gotten behind them?

  Dimitri burst in. “Logan, I’ll take over here. You find out what’s happening. The radios are in chaos with everybody yakking away.”

  Logan dashed out of the bunker and grabbed a bicycle. With gas and vehicles at a premium, many civilian bikes had been confiscated. He pedaled as quickly as he dared. The roads were cratered and the only light came from the sky, although explosions improved visibility as he got closer to the waterfront.

  Searchlights from both sides of the Havel swept the area and illuminated scores of small boats heading toward him and coming from the Russian side. The Reds were attacking what they hoped was the vulnerable American rear. A lot of people had said the Commies wouldn’t attack across the water, and they were very wrong.

  Logan spotted a very anxious General Miller giving orders. Several of the Russian craft had been hit and were either sinking or burning, but the remainder were pressing on. In the inconsistent light, it was impossible to figure out how large an attack it was. A Sherman tank rumbled beside him and stopped. The main gun fired and the shell landed between two boats filled with Russian soldiers, spilling them into the water. The tank’s machine guns raked several other boats. Logan gulped, recalling his crossing of the Elbe. That could have been them when they’d crossed that river an eternity ago if the Germans had tried to contest the crossing.

  More American tanks arrived and joined in, while additional infantry with machine guns and BARs began to rake the Russian boats. There weren’t as many as before and the survivors were turning back. It was over.

  Jack pedaled back to the bunker and his captain. After hearing the brief report, Dimitri nodded. “We were lucky. We were able to send our reserves to the water rather quickly. What do you think might have happened if the Reds had been smart enough to coordinate that attack with a land one?”

  Logan told the captain that he really didn’t want to contemplate that. Instead, he again went looking for Lis and told her what had gone on.

  She started to shake. “One of these days they will succeed.”

  Jack held her tightly until she calmed down. He told her everything would be all right, but he knew that was a lie. Food was becoming short and so was ammunition. A few more attacks and they’d be defending Potsdam with rifle butts.

  And when was the last time they’d seen an American plane? As the Soviets moved westward, they made the flight from the American lines ever longer and more treacherous. Hell, it’d been a long flight for American fighters when they’d crossed the Elbe, and that river had been crossed by the Reds a long t
ime ago.

  “We’ll make it, Lis, I promise.”

  “How can you say anything like that?” she asked with a tentative smile. She wanted to believe his brave words but knew better. “Are you telling me you have a plan?”

  “Sure. Actually, I have several plans.”

  This was a true statement. He spent much of his free time devising plans. The only problem was, none of them appeared workable. He kissed her quickly and headed back to his platoon.

  He had the sinking feeling that Goddamn Potsdam had been forgotten by the rest of the world.

  GENERAL MARSHALL SHIFTED in his chair and looked at Steven Burke. They were surrounded by boxes and other evidence that, once again, SHAEF headquarters was going to be moved in deference to the Soviet air force, whose planes were constantly searching for it.

  “You requested five minutes of my time, Colonel; well, you’re in luck. I can give you fifteen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now sit down and tell me what went on at Bitburg.”

  Burke was just a little surprised that the chief of staff would have known of his trip to the Russian POW camp. But only a little. Marshall had a reputation for knowing exactly what was going on, particularly regarding members of his staff.

  “Sir, one of the reasons I went there was to talk with the so-called average Russian POW and find out how he felt. A second reason was to try to confirm or refute a rumor that a great number of recent prisoners were not Russians; that, instead, they were Asians from places like Uzbekistan or Kazakhstan, or even Siberia.”

  “Yes,” said Marshall, “we had picked up on those rumors as well.”

  That statement somewhat deflated Steve, who had hoped he had stumbled onto something new. “Well, sir, I can confirm the presence of the non-Russians in large numbers. I can also say that those Russians we have in custody are very confused and not particularly enthused about the war against the United States.”

  “Few prisoners would be,” Marshall said drily.

  “General, based on my own interrogations and, after reading the reports of others, I believe the Russians may have suffered far greater losses in the last offensive against Germany than we first believed. I heard too many stories of depleted units, massive casualties, fuel and ammunition shortages, and lack of food for all these rumors to be lies. They all fit too well together. Simply put, they are running out of good manpower as well as supplies.”

  “So are we,” Marshall said, “which is why we are drafting eighteen-year-olds. And I suppose it explains the use of Asians by the Reds. They’ll make good cannon fodder until the Russians reconstitute their army.”

  “Yes, sir. Or at least that’s part of it. I believe that the Soviets are letting their second-echelon troops both inflict and take heavy casualties in an effort to wear us down. When the time comes, I believe the Reds will use their remaining elite Guards to great effect, but not until the second-and third-rate soldiers, the Asian rifle divisions or penal units, have bloodied us very badly, even though they would have destroyed themselves in the process.”

  Marshall nodded. “That pretty much confirms what the others have been saying. Now, tell me what’s going on in Stalin’s mind as a result of all this.”

  “Sir, it is totally unlike him to do anything impulsive or irrational, so I think he’s thought this out very clearly. He has a dread of being surrounded and attacked simultaneously by non-Communist, or capitalist, countries. This would include a resurgent Germany and an American presence in Europe. By taking all of Germany, he can eliminate at least one of his major problems. If he forces us out of Europe, he will have eliminated the second. The other countries of Europe will fall to him like dominoes.”

  “A charming picture.”

  “He would then be free to incorporate the resources of a Communist Germany as a military ally.”

  Marshall arched his eyebrows. “What makes you think Germany would become Communist? Would the people do that after experiencing fascism?”

  “Sir, they would have no choice. In one of his speeches he said something to the effect that an occupying or conquering power will always impose its own economic or social system on the occupied. This would be consistent with his stated aims of exporting the Communist revolution to all corners of the globe. Sir, give him a decade and every good little German will be a good little Communist, instead of a Nazi.”

  Marshall stood and leaned over the desk. “But what if we stop him, Colonel? What if our defenses hold, as I believe they ultimately will?”

  “Sir, this is where his ruthlessness and his ideology meet. Let’s say we stop him before Antwerp, which is his obvious goal, and he is also unable to cross the Rhine. Well, we then have a stalemate and he is the winner because he will still have conquered the lion’s share of Germany.”

  Marshall’s eyes were hard. “But Burke, what if we attack and drive him back to Russia?”

  Burke managed a small smile. “General, despite what I’ve heard about General Patton’s recent quotes about burning the Kremlin with Stalin inside, I don’t think that’s going to happen and neither does Stalin, and I don’t think you do either. It’s all rhetoric.”

  This time Marshall’s voice had an edge to it. “Go on.”

  “Sir, we still have Japan to finish off. In the event of a stalemate, we would be on the horns of a dilemma. Either we negotiate an armistice with the Reds and then invade Japan, or we sit here with our army and ignore the Japs. Sorry, sir, but I don’t see the American public standing for a long-term stare-down between the two armies while the Japs go scot-free. I also don’t see the American public permitting its armies to suffer hundreds of thousands of casualties so we can liberate a bunch of ex-Nazis from the clutches of a man we just recently called ‘Uncle Joe.’ I don’t know the figures, but I would guess we have suffered a lot of dead and wounded in the last few weeks. Rumor has it at a hundred thousand. I hope to God it’s not true.”

  Marshall sat down. A look of sadness crossed his face. “Burke, it’s more like a hundred and fifty thousand. About forty thousand more are missing and most likely prisoners of the Reds and will be pawns in any peace negotiations. And that doesn’t count those surrounded in Potsdam.”

  Burke was shocked. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

  “If it’s any consolation, the Russians are suffering far worse, but then, that was their plan, wasn’t it? They have the numbers and the will to absorb all we can give them and keep on coming, don’t they?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Stalin’s a cunning and ruthless bastard, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir. I should also add that he probably thought of the previous war between the Allies and Germany as little more than a civil war among capitalist nations. The fact that he had been dragged into it was fairly irrelevant, although very inconvenient. Again, sir, he is willing to throw away lives in the taking of an objective now because he feels it might not be achievable in the future. Why he feels that way right now, I do not know.”

  There, thought Steve, once again there was that almost imperceptible flicker across Marshall’s face. He decided to try something. “Sir, it would almost seem that he fears we have some sort of secret weapon, just like the Nazis were always bragging about.”

  Marshall’s mouth twitched and the façade of stoniness quickly returned. “Thank you, Colonel, that was well presented and has given me much food for thought. I will be returning to Washington in a day or so. I think you would be a valuable addition to Eisenhower’s staff, so you will remain here. Contact Beetle Smith regarding your duties.”

  Burke saluted and left. He had done his best. He had hoped to return to the States and Natalie, but that would have to be put off for a while. He would write her and, without giving away too much detail, let her know that he had just delivered another lecture to the chief of staff.

  But he did still think there was something funny about Marshall’s reaction to his comments about secret weapons. Could there actually be one?


  STALIN WAS OUTRAGED, but this time Molotov and Beria knew where the anger was directed. This served to calm them, but they knew that the direction of Stalin’s fury could change at any moment.

  “De Gaulle,” said Stalin, “is a fool. A big, oafish lump. It has been almost a week since Vyshinsky’s meeting with him and there has been no response to our demands.”

  Molotov took the tirade in stride. Stalin and de Gaulle had met briefly a couple of years earlier and had formed an instant dislike for each other. Stalin thought de Gaulle was an arrogant snob and Molotov concurred with that opinion. What de Gaulle thought of Stalin was of no concern to Stalin.

  Stalin puffed on his pipe, sending yet another blue-black cloud toward the high ceiling. “When we have finished with the Americans and the British we will take care of France. I will have de Gaulle shot, or, better yet, spend the rest of his life freezing his nuts off in a Siberian camp. Comrade Beria, when will your revolution of French Communists topple him?”

  Beria looked furtively about the room before he spoke. Stalin did not like to hear of failure, and he knew that was what he had to report. There was no second French Revolution. “Comrade Stalin, I must report that the enthusiasm of our French brothers for supporting us is nowhere near as high as I had been informed it would be.”

  “Why?”

  Molotov thought he could smell the odor of Beria’s perspiration and tried not to look at the man. “Comrade Stalin,” Beria said, “while there were some initial attempts to interrupt the French transport system, these were very few and far between; therefore, the French police and army were quickly able to put them down. Further, we have now confirmed that French troops are beginning to ride the trains and protect the highways, as well as the oil pipelines that the Americans have laid across France. While our brothers in France might have been willing to assault the Americans or the British, there is a very real reluctance on their part to attack their brother Frenchmen.”