Red Inferno: 1945 (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

A
s Steve Burke entered his small Georgetown apartment, he devoutly wished the evening had been more of a success. While he had taken the lovely and amazingly sensuous Natalie Holt out to dinner and a movie, and while there was the implied promise that he might be able to do it again, there were no tangible results for his efforts. Of course, an old Laurel and Hardy comedy was not exactly his first choice for a movie that would lead to a night of sexual adventure, but it had been her idea and he had acquiesced. And here it was, not even midnight, and he was at home, once again alone with his thoughts and books.

He flipped his brimmed cap on the couch and took off his short Eisenhower jacket. In a city of uniforms, he knew he looked nothing like an officer in the army. Burke was over six feet tall, but so thin he almost looked frail, and his hair was thin as well. Indeed, the only thing thick on him were the lenses of his glasses. No, he did not look like a warrior. He knew he looked—and felt—more like an Ichabod Crane type of college professor dressed up in a uniform for a costume party.

And whoever started the rumor that any male, single or not, would be gobbled up by the hordes of female secretaries and clerks who vastly outnumbered the men in Washington must have been joking. Burke was very single, and since coming to Washington his social life had been far less than spectacular. As to any sexual life, well, he might as well have been in a monastery.

Yet Natalie Holt, a staffer of some sort in the State Department, had agreed to go out with him. He had first seen her at a party at the Russian embassy and watched from a discreet distance as a small horde of real military and diplomatic types had fawned and fussed over her. And why not? She was tall, dark-haired, lithe, intelligent, wide-eyed, lovely, educated, and doubtless unattainable.

He had managed an introduction and struck up a brief conversation. That one talk led to a longer one and, in ensuing weeks, a number of casual dutch treat lunches that she seemed to enjoy. Her apparent pleasure made him ecstatic. He realized he had a crush on her. They had found common ground in their mutual expertise on Russia, and he was delighted to realize that someone as lovely as she could be so intelligent and educated.

The lunches were followed by an offer to take her out on a real date, which, to Steve’s astonishment, she accepted. So why the hell did she want to see a Laurel and Hardy film? Because, she had answered, it made her happy and these times were so gloomy that she sometimes needed something silly to lift her spirits. Silly like going out with him, he wondered, and banished the idea. He was slipping off his tie when the phone rang.

“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.

B
URKE 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.”

“B
ERLIN,” 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, London, 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.