Red Inferno: 1945 (29 page)

Latsis was right on one count. The new crew had been almost ludicrously inept. They knew little more about their T34 than how to drive it. Even that skill had failed them when they had attempted to cross the river. Suslov had the nagging feeling that he and Latsis could have navigated the Leine with little problem. Now they would have to wait for a bridge to be built. Perhaps it was better. Maybe the colonel was making the right decision by husbanding his dwindling supply of skilled human resources.

A little while later, the engineers made an appearance and a bridge started to take shape. As this occurred, the fire on the Soviet soldiers who had crossed earlier slackened as the bridge became the primary target. More infantry crossed, again using small boats. Several of them were hit and more bodies floated gently on the Leine. Overhead, there was a second battle as Stormoviks, protected by Yaks, tried to take out the American positions. The Americans called on their fighters, and P-47s dived among the Yaks. The American planes were better but the Yaks more numerous, and this permitted the armored Stormoviks to do their bloody work.

Even so, Suslov kept his hatches closed and his tank buttoned up. Whenever his men complained about the stifling heat, he told them to be quiet and listen to the sound of rain on the hull. Only it wasn’t rain. It was the clatter of small pieces of metal impacting on the armor. Inside they were safe. Outside, the poor, bloody infantry and engineers were having their flesh penetrated.

After what seemed an eternity, the bridge was completed. First across was another swarm of infantry to finally reinforce the earlier river crossers—if, that is, any were still alive.

Suslov’s tank was the fourth one across. He noticed that the lead tank in this effort also belonged to a replacement crew. Latsis was right. The colonel was very consistent. Reinforcements had brought the battalion up to twenty tanks, and many of their crews were very inexperienced indeed.

There was no real embankment on the other side of the Leine. The river had been channelized by the industrious Germans. Suslov’s tank was soon on the flat plain and he was watching a line of buildings a quarter mile away. It looked like another of the damned little villages that speckled the landscape in Germany. If defended, it would be hell to take.

“What do you think?” Suslov asked Latsis. The man was probably crazy but he did know his tactics.

“They have an observation post in the church and they’re dug in along the ground levels of the houses. It’s just like every other time we see a setup like this. Hell, there’s only so much they can do.”

Someone must have agreed with them. The church erupted as shells hit it, tumbling the steeple. Latsis laughed. The entire armored battalion was now across. The tanks began to fan out and move forward, accompanied by trotting infantry who tried to hide behind them. They had to move quickly. To sit still was to die. They had no idea how long the Yank planes would stay preoccupied with the Stormoviks or what evil was hidden in the village.

The answer came quickly. Suslov saw the flashes of antitank guns coming from the buildings. There was an explosion nearby as a T34 took a hit. “Faster,” Suslov urged. His tank surged ahead and the infantry were running to keep up.

There was another blast and then the feeling of heat. “What the hell was that?” Martynov, the young gunner, asked.

Suslov turned the turret and squinted through his view port. A great cloud of smoke and flame was enveloping two of the battalion’s tanks. Smoking bodies lay on the ground and he saw a couple of men tumbling and burning, trying to put out the fires. It had to have been either a mine or some goddamn thing dropped by a plane. Intuitively, he decided it was some kind of incendiary bomb. There was a banging, clattering sound as bullets struck the turret and hull from close range. Aside from the noise and the terror they inflicted, they did no harm.

Martynov fired the cannon at a building that was coming up quickly. The front wall disappeared, but there was nothing to indicate any damage to an American fortification. The Soviet infantry moved into the village. They crouched over, cowering as if they expected to be shot at any moment. He watched as a couple of them had those expectations fulfilled and fell to the ground. The Red Army had crossed the Leine but was paying a terrible price.

Finally, they were through the line of buildings and the firing from the ground slackened off, although American planes still whirled through the sky. They had defeated the Stormoviks and Yaks, and were now after prey on the ground. After a short while, even they pulled away, their bombs dropped and their bullets fired.

The exhausted tank crews found places to pretend they were hiding their iron steeds. Hell, the Yanks knew where they were and could come back at any time. Suslov checked the number of remaining vehicles in the battalion. There were fifteen. In one skirmish they had suffered 25 percent casualties. Worse, not all of them were Latsis’s inexperienced “chicklings;” a couple were fairly experienced crews. Fire from the sky, Suslov concluded, could not differentiate the elite from the chicklings.

Suslov opened the hatch and climbed out. It was a profound relief to be outside. He checked the tank for damage and found nothing serious. The extra fuel drum, however, had been shredded. Even though it had been 80 percent empty, it was a small miracle that there hadn’t been some sort of fire.

Latsis yelled down to him that the colonel wanted to see him immediately. Suslov trotted over to the command tank and presented himself. He knew he looked like hell and didn’t care. He noted that the colonel looked like he had been wallowing in dirt as well.

The colonel, an older man of almost thirty, nodded to him. “Good to see you made it.”

“Thank you, comrade Colonel. It’s good to see you as well.” He meant the comment. The colonel was a good man who tried to care for his troops, even the new ones when he could. Suslov was shocked at the lines of fatigue on the other man’s face. He wondered if that was how he looked to Latsis and the rest of his crew.

“Your captain’s dead. You will take over for him. And by the way, we have a new political officer. He likes to be called Comrade Boris.” The colonel rolled his eyes. That communicated enough. Comrade Boris was an asshole.

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Suslov wheeled and returned to his vehicle. Shit, he thought, ten minutes ago all I had to worry about was one tank. Now I have five tanks to watch out for and we don’t have any reserve fuel. Worse, two of the crews are raw trainees. Latsis had laughed at them yesterday and said they didn’t even know how to wipe their asses without hurting themselves or getting shit on their feet. He had to admit that Latsis, crazy or not, was again correct and had a way with words.

Perhaps he would let Latsis help out with the training of the new crews. Maybe they would even get some more replacements, although he would rather have some fuel. A T34 had a supposed range of 250 miles, but reality pushed that down considerably. Every second with the engine idling, or every time a tank had to backtrack or maneuver, ate into the distances they could cover. He also wondered when they would start to get some of the improved T34s or the Josef Stalin monsters. He would settle for a new T34, the improved version of which had an 85 mm gun instead of a
76
. It also had an additional crewman, and he was curious as to how another human being would fit into the already cramped, hot, and stinking quarters. Maybe he would get Comrade Boris and find out?

Well, rumor had it that the Yanks would now pull back to the Weser and concede this last move to the defensive line they’d been working on for two months. If true, that would give him some time to whip his litter of young pups into shape. When the time came to cross the Weser, only the fit and cruel would survive.

Is this what I’ve become? he suddenly thought. Cruel? Well, he had survived, hadn’t he? All the way from Stalingrad to this dirty little river in the middle of Germany. If it was necessary to be cruel to survive, then he could live with that. Perhaps he could someday change into the human being he had been so many years ago. At least his cruelty was not the same insane variety as Latsis’s was. Suslov recalled that Latsis had not always been that way.

“The war has made us all monsters,” he said.

Latsis stuck his head out of the tank and grinned cheekily. “All hail comrade tank commander, captain and leader.”

Suslov shook his head. He would gather his chicklings and get to work. Lives were at stake, and one of them was his own.

CHAPTER 22

W
olfgang von Schumann eyed the scruffy-looking group of American GIs carrying supplies from the depot up to their units. More and more, he thought, the Yanks were beginning to look like nothing more than a bunch of pirates. Perhaps it was the beards, which were totally out of character. Americans were supposed to be clean-shaven and boyish. These men looked like genial thugs. Then there was the question of their uniforms. Despite the fact that resupply efforts had picked up, many were in rags and tatters, and sometimes wore a miscellany of civilian clothing and liberated German uniforms when necessary or simply convenient. Uniforms in June had a lower shipping priority than food, medicine, and weapons.

Even when there was a choice, the young Americans had shown a marked preference for German equipment to replace theirs that had worn out or to enhance what they already had. While they had not started wearing German helmets, they had no qualms about using German submachine guns, machine guns, pistols, and antitank weapons. The discovery of the Nazi weapons cache in Potsdam had given the American warriors a chance to shop and they had taken advantage of it. Antitank
panzerfausts
were now a part of every unit’s arsenal, and the enlisted American infantry had started carrying sidearms along with the officers. Von Schumann had never been able to see the reason behind the rule that prohibited enlisted men from carrying pistols. Give them every advantage they could, he thought, even if it was only psychological, as he thought pistols were relatively useless in modern warfare.

The advantages of the German antitank weapons were far more than psychological. The American tank-killer weapons were deplorable. Neither the bazookas nor the towed antitank guns could penetrate the armor of a T34. Thank God he had convinced General Miller to use the Nazi 88 mm antiaircraft guns, which could double as extremely effective antitank weapons. Rommel had figured that out in North Africa and nearly destroyed the British armor in the process.

Having come late to the ground war, the Yanks had not had to face the wrath of either the German Panthers or the Luftwaffe when they were at full strength. Now they had to deal with the Russians, who had largely destroyed both the Panzers and the Luftwaffe. It was not a healthy situation, and the Americans were paying for it with the blood of their young men.

Von Schumann snapped to attention as General Miller emerged from his command bunker with Captain Leland. The look in Leland’s eyes told von Schumann that he was still having a hard time getting used to Germans being on his side. Did he think von Schumann felt all that comfortable saluting an American?

“Herr General, good morning,” he said to Miller, and he nodded to Leland, who nodded back. “May I talk to you about supplies for a moment?”

“Let me guess,” said Miller, “you’d like some more for your people.”

“If it is possible, yes. Even though most of the population of Potsdam fled before your arrival, there are still several thousand civilians in the perimeter and, while we are grateful for your generosity, many are still hungry.”

Leland responded. “Thanks to the brave men of the Eighth Air Force, Oberst, we are only now beginning to reach what we consider minimum food standards. I think it is premature to increase rations, particularly for civilians, until we have a reserve to fall back on in case the Russians sever that lifeline again.”

Von Schumann agreed with Leland and took Miller’s silence to indicate that he agreed as well. It was what he had expected, but he felt he had to ask. As yet there was no real hunger problem among the civilians, but they were very definitely on the edge of it. The two Americans started to walk away and von Schumann fell in step with them.

The reintroduction of the airlift had come as a surprise to the men, although Miller had been informed that something of the sort would be attempted. Someone at Bradley’s HQ had brilliantly decided that a B-17 could carry several tons of supplies instead of bombs and had reconfigured a number of them for that purpose. For a couple of weeks now, thirty or forty of the Flying Fortresses would fly overhead and hundreds of packages of supplies would be parachuted down. The bombers were protected by hordes of fighters as well as their own guns, and the Red air forces nearby had apparently decided they had better things to do than attack bombers that weren’t bombing anything. The flights were also erratically timed to keep the Reds from setting up an ambush.

Along with rations, medical equipment, ammunition, and replacement weapons, they had also dropped mail and other items of a personal nature to the besieged army. The result had been a surge in morale as the soldiers realized that they were not forgotten and alone. Everyone knew that any major Russian effort could stop the supplies, or the American armies could be pushed too far west for the effort to take place, but for now they were a godsend.

Miller paused and turned. “By the way, I caught hell when Simpson and Bradley told Ike I was using your men.”

“Does this mean we must cease?” Von Schumann sincerely hoped not. The Germans fully understood the weapons while the Yanks, willing learners, did not have the experience. Besides, using his soldiers would free Americans for other tasks.

“Naw. I was told that it was my responsibility, a command decision on my part, although I would have to answer for it at another time. I told them I sincerely hoped they would get my ass out of here so I could be called on the carpet for it, and that sort of shut them up. Just their way of admitting there’s nothing they can do to stop me. I think they agreed with me, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see Ike do something like it with the rest of the army.”

“Good.” Von Schumann meant it sincerely. Anything to defeat the Russians.

“But more food, Oberst? That, I’m afraid, will have to wait like Leland says. We have to build up a stockpile and hide it from possible harm.”

Again, von Schumann had to agree with the assessment. In the two months since they’d been trapped in Potsdam, he had been awed by the manner in which the Americans had dug and tunneled their way throughout the perimeter until it was a veritable honeycomb of underground passages. Other than the psychological need for sunshine, there was no need for them to be standing around outside right now.

There were now three lines of interconnected defenses, all supported by antitank guns, dug-in tanks, and tank destroyers, and protected artillery. Every possible target outside the perimeter had been calculated and mathematically zeroed in on. Sometimes the zeroing had been done with live ammo when the Reds gave them something to shoot at. Potsdam had truly become a citadel.

The American engineers had excavated large underground rooms for storage and for living. Although they were heavily reinforced, von Schumann had doubts whether some of them could stand up to repeated hits by Russian big guns.

All they could do was hold on and hope the Americans won the war. It was so frustrating knowing that events were so totally out of one’s control. Whether they were ultimately liberated, killed, or became prisoners depended on events taking place far to their west.

“General, one other thing. That correspondent wants to do a story on me. Do you think that is wise?”

Miller chuckled. “No, Oberst. Not at this time. Tell him to leave you alone. But I will have to give the little bastard credit for thinking about it. I may just solve the problem by having him shot and dropped into the Havel like I thought about doing when we caught the guy who was printing up the Commie literature.”

Even the dour Leland smiled at that. The Communist sympathizer with the mimeograph machine they’d caught had turned out to be a boy of fourteen. He’d been turned over to von Schumann, who had slapped him around until he cried and then convinced him he was lucky not to be shot. He was now working in the hospital dealing with people who’d been brutalized by the Red Army, and perhaps gaining a new perspective on life.

The correspondent, Walter Ames from Los Angeles, had successfully flown a two-seat Piper Cub all the way in from Hanover. He had stayed at treetop height to make himself invisible to the Russian planes as well as to fly over any trigger-happy infantry before they could aim and fire. With incredible panache, he’d had to land in Russian-occupied territory to refuel from five-gallon cans he’d carried on board his tiny craft. He’d also saved enough fuel to fly himself back. Or so he hoped. Much depended on where the American armies might be when he decided to leave.

Ames had also brought his own shortwave radio and generator, which he used to file his stories. This had necessitated the use of an American officer to function as his censor to ensure that he didn’t divulge anything important. As befitted the risks he had taken to get to Potsdam, Ames was pushy and aggressive.

Miller, however, could not argue with yet another leap in morale brought on by the presence of the reporter. He’d gone from unit to unit and taken down names and relayed information by radio about the soldiers to their loved ones. He was particularly insistent that the wounded be the first to send messages back home that they were okay, and Miller had quickly concurred. When the fighting first started, the wounded’s next of kin had received only a telegram stating that their loved one was wounded in action. Normally, this would have been followed up by further information, or even a letter or phone call from the soldier as he was evacuated to the rear. Because they were cut off this hadn’t happened, and Miller totally sympathized with the frustrations that the families must be feeling.

But now was not the time to let Ames tell the world that an ex-Nazi held a position of authority and influence in Potsdam.

“Leland,” Miller said, “I’ve changed my mind. Let Ames live for a few more days. Just keep him out of my hair.”

T
HE MOVE OF
SHAEF’s field headquarters from Reims to nearby Compiègne had been necessitated by the fact that the Russians had located the first site and launched several very strong bombing attacks against it. When these had been beaten off, the Reds then tried sending in single planes, hoping they could sneak through and kill some Allied leaders. When one lone plane succeeded and a bomb fell on a mess hall and killed more than fifty men, wounding many others, including several generals, it was decided to move to a safer location.

Burke parked his jeep and immediately noticed the tension and bustle. There had always been a sense of urgency in the headquarters but this was different. Something had happened, and the tone of voices and the sense of grim urgency said it wasn’t good. He knew better than to approach Beetle Smith in a time of crisis, but he did want information as to what was happening.

Luck was with him as he recognized the disfigured British officer, Major Charles Godwin. He walked up to the man and grabbed his arm.

“Charles, what on earth’s going on? Everyone seems in such a panic.”

Godwin’s scarlike mouth opened in a smile. “Nothing so important as to make one do away with politeness. Now, how have you been? Met any interesting Russians lately?”

Burke shook his head in disbelief. “As a matter of fact I’ve been away for several days checking prisoners, and returned to find SHAEF moved and the new place in an uproar. The Russian POWs had nothing new to add.”

“Nothing?”

“Well, they did complain about supply shortages and they definitely feel the Russian air force has let them down, but nothing new of a political nature. The Reds still seem to be hoarding most of their elite soldiers for future battles.”

“Ah,” said Godwin, “not so much anymore.”

Burke felt a twinge of dread. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean and why I am here is because the Russians have gone and right royally buggered Montgomery. Were you familiar with the tactical situation regarding the British Army?”

“A little,” Burke admitted. “I know they are to the north of us.”

“Well, they still are, only not quite as many of us as before. As we were still holding on to Hamburg, British lines were rather extended and there were some calls from Ike to Monty that he should give up Hamburg before he got outflanked. At any rate, Monty declined and the Russians hit the point where your army connected with ours and rammed its way in between. It was a typical Russian attack. They swarmed and probed until they found a weak point, and then they blasted their way through. The Reds are now racing toward Bremen, and eight British divisions have been cut off and are retreating into German-held Holstein while your army pulls back to the south. Hamburg, of course, is belatedly being abandoned and Montgomery is having a snit, complaining about being abandoned by Ike.”

“Is it as bad as it sounds?”

“Perhaps worse. There are almost a hundred thousand British soldiers in jeopardy. We estimate that Rokossovsky, the Russian commander, has at least half a million against us. Thus, there is no chance that we will be able to go on the offensive and rescue them. Our soldiers will have to continue to retreat north through Doenitz’s rump republic of Germany.”

“Good.”

“Ah, Steven, but it will remind everyone of the possibility of another Dunkirk. As you are well aware, there is a large antiwar movement in Britain, and this will fuel their fire. It may even cost Churchill his job.”

“Unbelievable how much trouble you’ve gotten into while I was gone.”

“Ike, however, is pushing for a second alternative. He wants the British to link up with the Germans and fight alongside each other instead of contemplating a humiliating withdrawal while our ex-enemies cover our backsides. It is causing an absolute uproar in London.”

Godwin smiled wickedly. “On the other hand, perhaps we’ll get lucky and Montgomery will be relieved of his command.”

Burke was shocked. He had known that Montgomery was not held in high esteem by the American command, but was Godwin speaking heresy about the hero of El Alamein?

“Charles, I thought he was your best general?”

“Then God save Britain. No, Monty is an adequate general who can perform well when he is given time to plan an act accordingly. When he has to create, he fails. He won at El Alamein because he had two months to plan the battle and he outnumbered and outgunned Rommel. He failed at Arnhem because it was too ambitious and novel, and he made it work too slowly. Personally, I thought it ludicrous that he wanted to be the overall ground commander and lead a narrow-front drive to Berlin. It would have been disastrous.” He smiled his ghastly smile. “I will never admit such heresy in public, of course.