Red Inferno: 1945 (20 page)

Miller laughed. “Rob, are you telling me my rule isn’t being followed?”

“Shit, Puff, it’s being totally ignored! By the way, nobody’s gotten any mail in a helluva long time either. I know your nonfraternization rule is the same as Ike’s, but nobody’s paid any attention to that one either. Look, I’ve told my boys to watch out for prostitutes and thieves, but if two kids want to sit in the sun and hold hands and talk nice to each other, well, God bless ’em. Besides, my old friend, just who the hell is our enemy nowadays? It sure as shit isn’t Germany anymore, is it?”

Miller thought of his own family back in the States. When would he see them again? Once again, rules were meant to be broken. Seize the day, went some saying, and it was right. Tomorrow you could be dead.

G
ENERAL
M
IKHAIL
B
AZARIAN
seethed with inward rage as the pale-skinned young Russian colonel fussed with the papers he’d taken from his briefcase. The man had been poking around his command for a day now, and had become a total nuisance. It was made endurable only by the fact that the little shit was from Zhukov’s staff, and was not NKVD or from Stavka, the interservice general headquarters outside Moscow.

Colonel Fyodor Tornov had been sent by Zhukov’s people to find out why that tank column had been ambushed and destroyed by the Americans in Potsdam. Apparently the column’s late commander had been related to someone important. Bazarian knew that this little cretin of a colonel was also related to someone high up in the party.

Bazarian outranked him, but Tornov treated him with the genteel contempt reserved for inferior beings. After all, Tornov was a Russian and destined for greater things. It was evident to Bazarian that Tornov thought Bazarian and his army would all be growing beets when the war was finally over.

Worse, Tornov had written a report that was going to be highly critical of Bazarian. It might even get him booted from his command.

“In summary,” Tornov said, “I can fault the tankers for not heeding your warnings, but you should not have permitted the Americans to be in a position to have caused such damage. They should have been eliminated by that time.”

“Those were not my orders,” Bazarian reminded him. “I was given a force sufficient to contain the Americans, not destroy them, as was proven by my subsequent attack on them. The Americans have dug themselves into a very strong position in what is virtually a peninsula, thanks to the twists of the Havel and the presence of some lakes on their flanks. And, as I am sure you will note in your report, I did use the forces at my command to attack them very shortly after that unfortunate incident. That my attack failed simply points out that any earlier attempt would have been futile.”

Tornov blinked at the convoluted logic. “There is no question that the attack was made and that the attack failed. You lost half your tanks and two thousand men. You are no longer strong enough to attempt anything further against them. Can you even continue to contain them?”

“Certainly,” Bazarian said.

They had been over this before. Of course he could contain them. Where could the Yanks go? Even if they did attempt to break out, the American lines were receding into the west and they doubtless didn’t have enough gas to push their tanks and other vehicles that far anyway. No, the Americans were still solidly trapped in Potsdam.

Bazarian tried another tack. “Colonel, when will Zhukov send me replacements for the men I’ve lost?”

Tornov thought for a moment while Bazarian raged behind a placid façade. Did the little shit think he was the one who would make that decision?

“General Bazarian, replacements of good quality are in short supply. Headquarters might be able to get you another division or two of Romanians.”

“Romanians! Those human dung!” Bazarian was outraged. How dare they even think of sending him people with such minimal military value. Worse, the Romanians had once been allied with the Nazis, but had turned coat and now fought with the Soviet Union. Would they turn again? Once the Romanians had been fairly decent soldiers, but these were the leftovers.

Tornov smiled, and Bazarian realized just how little his force was thought of if they would only send him help from that source. Calmly, he said he would take the Romanians.

“Good,” said Tornov, putting his papers into a briefcase. “I’m sure you will put them to good use.” Tornov checked his watch. “It is almost noon. I should be off shortly to return to headquarters.”

Bazarian smiled. And there to deliver your report, which will ask for my head. “Must you leave so soon? Have you had a chance to actually watch the Americans?”

Tornov was intrigued. He had never even seen an American “No, I haven’t.”

After careful inquiries, mainly through Tornov’s driver, a Ukrainian who thought the colonel was an incompetent asshole, Bazarian had earlier found that Tornov had never seen any action of any kind. He had only recently been assigned to Zhukov’s headquarters, and was tolerated only because of his highly placed uncle. The driver felt that he had been sent on this fool’s errand to get him out of truly important people’s way.

Thus, while it was possible his report would be ignored, it was not a chance that Bazarian was willing to take.

“Colonel,” he said soothingly, “you must see them. I will take you. It’s safe and it will be something you can tell your friends. After all, how many of them have actually seen Americans?”

Bazarian could see Tornov calculating the options. He had said it was safe and, yes, it would certainly impress his peers.

Tornov beamed. “Yes, I would like that very much.”

They took Bazarian’s vehicle, an American jeep that had been sent to Russia as part of an aid package. He was very proud of it and his driver, another Armenian, kept it spotless. His previous staff vehicle had been a captured German Volkswagen, which had not impressed him in the slightest.

It was only a few minutes’ drive to the spot Bazarian had chosen. “We will watch them from Outpost 7.”

They were met by a couple of men and an officer, who came over and started to speak. A glare from Bazarian changed his mind and made him back off, a confused and sullen expression on his face.

They walked down a well-trodden path in a deep trench until they came to a sandbagged platform. Bazarian climbed to the top and Tornov followed. “There,” he said, “use my binoculars and you will see them quite clearly.”

Tornov didn’t comment that the binoculars were German and not Russian. He took them and placed his elbows on the top of the platform. “I can’t see anything.”

“Then step up a little higher. Don’t worry, they’re well out of range.”

Tornov did as he was told. “I still can’t see.”

The sounds of the rifle firing and the bullet impacting on Tornov’s head occurred almost simultaneously. Tornov jerked backward, dropped the binoculars, and slithered to the ground. Bazarian turned him over with his foot. The American bullet had penetrated just below Tornov’s right eye, creating an absurd three-eyed effect, and exited the back of his skull, leaving a gaping hole. Thank God the binoculars were undamaged, Bazarian thought as he picked them up.

Bazarian shook his head sadly as his driver and the others came running up.

“The poor man. I told him this was a dangerous place but he was brave and insisted on seeing for himself. He also told me he thought a periscope was a coward’s tool.”

The last comment was aimed at the officer whose comment Bazarian had shushed. It was common knowledge that the Americans had a sharpshooter with uncanny skills in the area. As a result, most observers had devised and used crude periscopes.

The soldiers nodded solemnly while Bazarian’s driver stifled a grin. He’d known Bazarian for a very long time.

Bazarian turned to his driver. “Anatol, bring me the colonel’s papers. I must see if there is anything important in them that should be passed on.” Or burned, he thought. “We will notify headquarters, of course, and bury the poor man here.” And I will get those divisions of Romanians, he added silently, and perhaps some others. Then we will settle with the fucking Americans.

CHAPTER 16

S
teve Burke was delighted at the turn his great European adventure had taken, all the while admitting that he was perplexed by what he was discovering. The camp for Russian POWs had been established just outside the German city of Bitburg, which itself was just inside the border with Luxembourg. He was actually in Germany, and the thought made him exultant. He had convinced others at SHAEF that he would serve a good purpose if he went and interviewed Russian captives.

But, after interviewing a number of Soviet prisoners and reviewing the scanty records of others, what he was finding disturbed him. He was trying to sort it out as he walked near the stockade in the fading light of the mid-May evening.

“Colonel Burke?”

He turned and gasped. The thing before him was an apparition from hell.

“Oh dear,” it said. “I’ve done it again. I’ve gone and startled you, haven’t I?”

The accent was decidedly British and so was the uniform, Royal Air Force to be specific. The creature’s apology seemed totally without remorse.

“Only slightly,” Burke said, gathering his composure. “I was thinking and didn’t hear you come up behind me.” It was partially the truth. He had been deep in thought.

“Are you certain it isn’t the fact that I have no face?”

Burke wondered, was he being teased? The RAF officer before him lacked a nose and eyebrows, and his skin had the appearance of stretched and shiny rubber. There was little hair on his head and only lumps that might have once been ears. Burke glanced down and saw that the man’s hands were claws. Each hand had thumbs, but only one or two other fingers on each hand to oppose them. Despite himself, he shuddered.

“Yes,” he answered truthfully. “I was shocked.”

The man laughed. “Well, finally someone who admits the sight of me scares the shit right out of them. So many are so terribly polite and assure me they see abominations like me all the time and aren’t affected at all, which is patently a fucking lie. I am Major Charles Godwin and I would shake hands with you but I really don’t have any hands left to shake with. I know you’re a colonel, but don’t expect me to salute. I stopped that a long time ago as well.” He shrugged. “Just what the hell can anyone threaten me with, eh?”

Burke managed a grin. “Sounds fair. By the way, how did you know who I was?”

“Easy. You are the visiting Russian expert from the states. I looked you up because I wanted to ask you some questions and share some thoughts. Perhaps a drink might help things along.”

Burke thought that both were wonderful ideas. Godwin had parked his jeep just a short distance away and had a bottle of brandy and a couple of glasses in it.

“Cheers,” he said after pouring. “Now, before you ask or start wondering, I lost my face and some other very important body parts in 1940 when the Hurricane I was piloting was shot down by a Messerschmitt over Plymouth. Unfortunately for me, the Hurricane turned into a flamer before I could get out, and I had to actually land the bugger since there was serious doubt whether my parachute would open under the circumstances.” He bowed. “Thus, the medical marvel you see before you.”

Burke sipped his brandy. Martell, he thought, and Godwin confirmed it.

“Since I cannot fly, the military lords often send me on errands like this one, and I hope I have been valuable to them. I am currently serving as air liaison with General Montgomery. I do not speak Russian but you do. I would like to learn what you have found out about our imprisoned ex-allies. But first, I would like to know about the London you passed through. In particular, the riots. London is my home.”

Burke recalled the incidents all too well. For a while he had been in real fear for his life. The worst incident had occurred while they had been driving along the Thames Embankment in a caravan of vehicles that included Marshall. It had begun when they had turned right onto Birdcage Walk and headed toward Buckingham Palace.

“We weren’t actually going to the palace, just by it on the way to our living quarters after a day of meetings.”

At that point he said they had been blocked by an unexpected sea of angry humanity. They were confronted by thousands of men and women of all ages who bore signs critical of Churchill and the government, but, most particularly, they were against the war with the Soviet Union. They had been protesting in front of Buckingham Palace and were, he found out later, slowly but firmly being pushed away from the palace by the London police and right into the path of the American convoy.

For a moment, the crowd just stared at the short line of slow-moving cars, but then the vehicles stopped and started to back up. At that point someone in the crowd started yelling that the fucking Yanks were here and that the Yanks were the cause of it all.

Burke shuddered and took some more brandy. “Major, it then got horrible. They started pounding on the cars and rocking them. Rocks were thrown and some of our men got dragged out of their cars and beaten. I found out later that a couple of Americans were killed by the mob, beaten or trampled. The MPs protecting General Marshall opened fire and some of the rioters were killed as well. Then the rocks and bottles started really coming down. We got Marshall’s vehicle turned around and we tried to keep the other cars between his and the mob while he got away. It didn’t work all that well. They just flowed around us like water around boulders. Somebody punched in the car window right by me and I was showered with glass and some blood where the bastard had hurt himself.”

“Where were the police?” Godwin asked. “On the other side of the crowd, right?”

“Of course. They finally came and started fighting the crowd, which was now trapped between two lines of cops. Then someone in the mob started setting fires and they spread fairly quickly to a number of buildings nearby. I saw people—police and at least one American—get thrown into the fires by the rioters. It was unbelievable. After that, we finally got away.”

“Who was doing the rioting?”

“Everyone says it was socialists and left-wing radicals. I don’t think that’s entirely correct. Some of those people looked too middle class to be typical radicals. I saw a lot of older people, grandparent types. You know what I think? I think it’s true that a large number of Britishers are totally sick of the war and scared it won’t ever end. You know what else?” The Martell was starting to warm him. “I’m not sure I blame them. The thought of this going on forever scares the shit out of me too.”

“Nor do I entirely blame them,” Godwin said softly. “Thank you for the telling. I lost a young cousin in those riots and I wanted to know how, if not why. I’m not sure anybody knows why. A number of them have broken out in Manchester, Liverpool, and other British cities. God only knows where it will end.”

Burke sighed. “Now, you said you wanted to know about the prisoners. Well, I’ve noted something peculiar.”

Before he could elaborate, the sound of sirens filled the air and searchlights quickly pointed brilliant fingers upward.

“Goddamn air raid,” snarled Godwin. “Find a shelter. The bloody Russians are going to bomb us.”

The nearest shelter was a slit trench about fifty yards away, and they piled into it. They could hear planes coming closer and there wasn’t time to be choosy and search for something more substantial. Antiaircraft guns opened fire, and they could see the Russian bombers outlined in the sky by searchlights while the tracers sought them out.

“Ilyushin 4s,” Godwin said. “They don’t have much of a bomb load, only about two tons, but they have pretty decent range, which is why they are currently overhead.”

“Marvelous,” said Burke, trying not to let the gut-tightening fear he was feeling control his voice. Two tons of bombs might not be much to Godwin, but it was an enormous amount to him.

Godwin continued. It was as if he was delivering a lecture. “No, not marvelous at all. Frankly a rather shitty plane flown by inexperienced or unskilled pilots. Do you see they are in following groups of three? Well, that’s so they can follow the leader. Otherwise they’d get lost because they are so bloody stupid.”

As they watched, one of the bombers exploded in midair. The others began dropping their bomb loads, which Burke realized were going to impact primarily on the prison camp.

Godwin thought this amusing. “What wonderful intelligence they must have. They are killing their fellow Russians.”

“Do they know this is a prisoner camp?” Burke asked.

“I would hope so. We have notified the Red Cross and the Swiss, who are supposed to inform everyone, and there are signs on the roofs of the buildings, but that presumes the Russians can read. Poor bloody bastards.”

Burke ducked as the sound of the bombings washed over them. Good God, people were dying and he was actually seeing combat. Again, he tried to keep his voice steady. “That’s what I was going to tell you. Many of them aren’t Russians.”

“What?”

“Well, a lot of them are from other, non-Russian parts of the USSR, and many of them can’t even speak Russian. I don’t understand it.”

He explained about trying to communicate with them in Russian and receiving blank stares in return. At first he’d thought it was his American accent and maybe he was talking in an elitist way to some peasant, but he was wrong. The few Russians who were there had understood him fairly easily. The non-Russians, he finally managed to ascertain, understood only a handful of Russian words, and these basically represented commands or obscenities.

A bomb went off nearby, and they ceased talking and hugged the ground at the bottom of the trench.

They waited as the sound of the planes receded and the explosions ceased. Godwin stuck his head out of the trench. “Bloody hell! My jeep’s gone. Blown off the road, I would think. Thank God I had the foresight to bring the brandy with me.”

Yes, Burke thought. Thank God that we are alive and able to have a drink. It was occurring to him that he had been in no particular great danger, but that many others in the camp had been killed or wounded. The irony that Soviets had killed their own did not mitigate the horror of the deaths.

Godwin couldn’t find any glasses so he politely passed the bottle before taking his own liberal swallow. “So,” he said, “you don’t understand the prisoner situation.”

Burke took another swallow. “Yes. First, there is the sad fact that there are so few prisoners. Only a few thousand, as far as I can tell. I guess it’s logical since they are the ones who are attacking and would have less of an opportunity to lose manpower as captives.”

“True,” said Godwin.

“And most of them are not Russians.”

“True again.”

“Charles,” Burke said, “what, in your opinion, does that mean, if anything?”

They thought on it for a while. Then it came to them.

S
OME DAYS
N
ATALIE
H
OLT
was sick with worry over thoughts of what could be happening to Steve Burke. The very idea of him going into a war zone was almost ludicrous. He didn’t belong there. He belonged in a classroom. Actually, she thought with a satisfied inner smirk, he belonged in her bed, where she could take damned good care of him.

Her concern for him sometimes did affect her work at the State Department. On a couple of occasions her bosses had gently chided her about her lack of attention to affairs of state, and she had apologized sincerely. After all, it wasn’t as if she was the only staffer with a loved one in harm’s way.

Fortunately, most of her work was interesting enough to keep her distracted. There was an incredible amount of information surfacing from Russian émigrés in various countries, and it needed to be reviewed. It also seemed like everyone with Russian relatives wanted to be assured that they were all right, which was impossible to determine.

Like Gromyko and the rest of the Russian diplomatic corps in the United States, Ambassador Averell Harriman and his staff were confined to the embassy grounds in Moscow and dependent upon local government to provide them with food and other necessities. Consulates had been closed in both countries and a number of Soviet citizens had been detained, as had Americans in Russia.

Detained, she knew, was a euphemism for being imprisoned. Russians were being held at American military posts and were being treated well. She wondered just how Americans who weren’t ranking diplomats were faring in Russian hands. Not all American prisoners of the Russians were military or diplomatic personnel. A number of civilian American merchant marines had been either in the port of Murmansk or so close to it that they could not turn back when the war started. They too had been interned, and she did not think they were being treated gently.

Despite the constraints, both embassies were still functioning. Ever so correctly, the respective host governments did not cut off telephone or cable links and both embassies communicated with their home countries by diplomatic pouches which were carried by neutral Finnish, Swiss, or Swedish couriers. She also knew that the U.S. embassy in Moscow communicated with its counterpart in London via shortwave radio, an advantage the Soviets in North America did not have.

Of course, everything was listened to and phones were tapped, but life still went on. She understood it was because it was hoped that the presence of diplomats on one another’s soil might someday facilitate an end to the war.

Natalie prayed that it would end before something happened to poor, dear Steve.

“Miss Holt?”

Natalie looked up to see the unwelcome presence of Special Agent Tom Haven, a stocky man in his late thirties with bad breath. He also seemed to dislike everyone in the State Department and made little secret of it. He’d been heard saying everyone in State was a queer or a Commie. Haven and others from the FBI had been reviewing everyone in her group, and it was getting on their nerves. Natalie was thankful that the problem with her mother had finally been satisfactorily resolved and she no longer had to undergo interrogations by people like Haven.

“Where’s Barnes?” he asked. Walter Barnes was her immediate supervisor.