Red Inferno: 1945 (32 page)

Steve knocked and entered. He snapped to attention, saluted, and reported. Ike was seated behind his desk. He returned the salute and told Burke to stand at ease but did not offer him a seat. This, Burke decided, was going to be a very short meeting with the great man and he was probably going to get his ass chewed. But why the security review if that was the case?

The look on Ike’s face was grim. This was not the happy, smiling face in the newspapers and magazines; this was the hard-driving war leader, the man who could send thousands of men out to be killed. Ike’s eyes were cold and his voice flat when he spoke.

“Colonel, I am giving you a special assignment of utmost importance and secrecy. You will note the obvious, that we are alone and not even General Smith is with us. This task, Colonel, is indeed that secret. Upon leaving here, you will be flown immediately to Iceland to see a Colonel Paul Tibbetts. He will provide you with information that you will share with no one, absolutely no one, without my permission. Is that clear?”

Burke assured him it was. Ike continued. “While in Iceland, you will take directions from Tibbetts and speak only to those he directs you to, and only about what they tell you. Within reason, you may ask questions if Tibbetts permits it, but you may not have to as Tibbetts is putting together a presentation for my benefit with you acting as my surrogate.”

Burke could only stammer, “Yes, sir.”

“When you return, you will be asked to give that information to me at a time and place of my choosing. There may be others present at that time or there may not. I haven’t yet decided. Again, I must repeat that you are forbidden to talk about what you learn or even take notes. If you disobey, or even inadvertently fail to maintain security, I will have you court-martialed for treason. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Burke felt himself sweating. What the hell was going on?

“Colonel, you are doubtless wondering why you were chosen for what appears to be a particularly thankless task. Well, General Marshall left you here thinking that your particular knowledge of Stalin and the Russian mind might prove useful. I agreed, although I had no specific need at that time. Now I have a use for that knowledge and it might help me make some very important decisions.”

Ike’s expression softened. “Notice, I said I will make the decision. You will provide information that may help me.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Burke, Tibbetts is an old friend of mine who is part of an incredibly secret project involving a weapon whose potential is so devastating that it could affect the war, perhaps all mankind. Not even I know the details, and your task is to learn what you can readily assimilate about that weapon’s capabilities and limitations, and then advise me as to how it might best be used against Stalin and the Russians.”

So that’s it, Burke thought. There is a secret weapon. Burke’s expression must have given him away. Ike stood and glared at him from across the desk. “You didn’t look surprised. Did you know about it, and, if so, who the hell told you?”

“Sir, I didn’t know anything specific, only a hunch.” He quickly recounted his two conversations with Marshall, and Marshall’s reactions when he speculated there was more to Stalin’s motives than pure greed. He told Ike that he felt Stalin knew there was a limited window of opportunity and for reasons that were not readily apparent.

Ike nodded, his anger dissipated. “Good guess. I can see why Marshall recommended you.” He checked his watch. “I laid on a plane for you, and it should be fueled and ready about now. You probably won’t have to stay more than a day to learn all you need to know about this weapon. When you get back, keep yourself available at all times. I’ll tell Smith not to send you on any errands. Now get going.”

Burke saluted and started to turn. Then he saw Ike’s hand was out and he grasped it. “Do a good job, Colonel.” This time Ike was grinning slightly.

CHAPTER 25

“H
ere they come again,” Holmes yelled. It was all that an exhausted, hungry, and filthy Lieutenant Billy Tolliver could think of as he looked through his binoculars. How many times had he thought that phrase during the last couple of months? A dozen? A hundred? Only this time, it was a mob scene with people close-packed and making easy targets. What the hell kind of commanders did the Russkies have?

Tolliver’s platoon was dug in as a rear guard with the Weser River to their backs. Behind them, a steady column of American trucks and tanks crossed the temporary bridge that had been constructed only a couple of months prior in happier times, when the army was whipping the Nazis. Now it was used so Americans could retreat. When the last vehicle was safe, Tolliver and the rest of the rear guard would cross to the west bank and the bridge would be blown up.

Holmes grabbed his sleeve. “Lieutenant, take a closer gander. Those look like civilians, not Russians.”

Tolliver shook the fatigue from his brain and looked again. As usual, Holmes was right. It was a mob of civilians heading toward their position. That would complicate things a bit. They would have to frisk them and let as many of them as possible cross before making their own escape and destroying the bridge. What the hell was the matter with those people, didn’t they realize the field they were crossing might have been mined? It would have been had there been more time. Then he realized the awful truth, the reason for the advancing wave of civilians.

“Holmes, are those soldiers behind them?”

Holmes moaned. “Aw Jesus, the Reds are pushing them in front.”

Tolliver looked at the approaching horde of panic-stricken people. The closer they got, the better he could see the Russians pushing them, prodding them forward with gun butts and bayonets. Worse, there were women and children among them. I’m going to be sick, he thought. But what choice did he have?

“Tell everyone to open fire,” he ordered, then turned to Holmes, who, as usual, had the radio. “Then get mortars on them, fast. Come on. If you don’t we’ll be overrun!” Holmes paled but complied, quickly relaying the message to the weapons platoon.

For a moment, there was no rifle or machine-gun fire from his platoon. No one wanted to kill women and little kids. At least, no one wanted to be first. The wave of people was only a couple of hundred yards away and Tolliver could see faces. Their mouths seemed to be open in frightened Os. He also thought he could hear a kind of collective singing moan coming from them.

Tolliver jumped out of his foxhole and stood upright. “See,” he screamed, “this is how you do it!” He fired his carbine at the advancing host, emptying the clip. Even though it was a long shot for a carbine, the mob was difficult to miss and he saw several people fall over, and the moaning turned to screams. It was enough. The rest of the platoon opened up and bullets cut the advancing people down in rows, not discriminating between soldier and civilian, adult or child. Within seconds, the mortars arrived and bodies and parts of bodies were hurled into the air as the shells exploded.

Holmes paled and sobbed, but he too kept on firing. With macabre satisfaction they saw that Russian soldiers were lying dead among the fallen civilians. Holmes wondered if he could ever have been the first to kill those people, like Tolliver had. Then he saw that Tolliver too was crying.

The Russians stopped advancing and began to withdraw, leaving the dead and dying civilians. Tolliver lifted fire and directed the mortars to follow the retreating enemy infantry. Along with the civilian casualties there was a number who were unhurt. These milled about in confusion until a couple of them realized that the Russians had abandoned them. Then some of them started to walk slowly toward the American positions while a few of the other survivors searched among the bodies for loved ones.

A runner appeared beside Tolliver. “Captain says the last truck is about to cross and we should get ready to leave.”

“Did he say anything about this mess?” Tolliver asked.

The runner gulped at the sight of the slaughter. “He said he understands, and that you should still get out right now. He said battalion thinks there’s Russian armor coming up real fast.”

Which means, Tolliver thought as he gave the order to withdraw, there will be no aid for those poor wounded civilians lying there. It was funny. Just a few weeks ago, he would have thought of them as Nazis, the enemy, people to be punished. Now he thought of them as flesh-and-blood human beings, just like himself.

It took only a few minutes to reach the bridge and sprint across. Tolliver found his captain and asked for orders. The captain said nothing, only pointing. A line of civilians was crossing the bridge. They could see safety in their grasp and some began running. Then he saw the first Russian tank starting to cross the field a couple of hundred yards from the bridge. Oh no, he thought.

Suddenly, the lead tank exploded, its turret flying off. Seconds later, Tolliver saw the blur of a barrel-chested P-47 Thunderbolt pulling out of its dive. The air force had arrived.

“Hey, Captain. Now we can delay blowing the bridge, can’t we?”

The captain started to say something, but it was too late. Both ends of the bridge disappeared in a cloud of smoke and flame. The civilians were thrown off by the explosion and soon disappeared in the water. Tolliver shook his head in mute anger and sorrow. He already knew why some of the old guys back home who had fought in France in 1918 wouldn’t talk about their experiences in that war. If he ever made it back to Alabama, there was no way he could speak and let mere words try to describe what he had seen and what he had done.

S
USLOV WAS CAREFUL
not to get too close to the Weser, staying instead in a line of trees a half mile away. There wasn’t much cover for the tank column from air attack, and he had heard what had happened to a couple of tankers who had strayed too close. The Yank army had retreated across the Weser and taken all their bridges with them. The Americans had escaped.

As if there was a doubt, he thought. After crossing the Leine, it seemed that the American resistance had suddenly collapsed. Gains that had been measured in yards suddenly became miles. While it had taken two months to go from the Elbe to the Leine, it had taken only a little more than a week to go from the Leine to the Weser.

Had the Americans broken and collapsed? Suslov didn’t think so. The withdrawal across the river had been done without any panic that he could see. They had left neither their equipment nor their wounded. No, it was obvious to him that the slow fight to the Leine had permitted them time to build up defenses along the Weser.

Ivan Latsis opened his hatch. “Well, Sergei, that is a real river, not one of those piss trickles we’ve been crossing all this time.”

Suslov could not recall any piss trickles. The Oder had been real, as had the Elbe and even the smaller Leine. He estimated this one at somewhere between two and three hundred feet across, deep, and flowing fairly quickly. While there were no truly steep embankments on either side, there would be no testing of the depths to see if a tank could cross. Instead, they would have to do it the hard way. Again.

“What’s our fuel status?” Suslov asked.

“Less than half and nothing in the drums,” Latsis replied.

Popov reported they had only a dozen shells for the
76
mm gun and a hundred rounds total for the two machine guns.

Latsis shrugged and smiled. “I don’t think we’ll be leading the attack this time. Not unless they want us to run dry right away. This time I think the rumor is true.”

Suslov agreed. The scuttlebutt was that the brigade would again be pulled out of line, reinforced, and refitted for a while before attempting to force a crossing. It only made sense. They had been fighting constantly since the assault on Berlin in April, and the wear and tear on men and equipment had been horrific. Once again, their numbers were down. The entire battalion numbered only eight functioning tanks. Two had been lost to aircraft the day before, while the rest all needed major overhauls. Suslov wondered if he could get a replacement engine for his tank. The existing one was running hot and making strange noises.

They needed ammunition and fuel. They needed food. God, Suslov thought, when did they last have a good, hot meal? Their uniforms were smelly rags that sometimes barely covered their private parts. There was no way his brigade was going to help force a crossing of that river in their current condition. Even though the infantry would likely lead any assault, as it had in the past, it was imperative that the armor rest and refit in order to support them.

Suslov knew his geography. The Weser ran north-south well into the mountainous regions below them. Behind the Weser was the mighty Rhine. It seemed dumbly improbable that they would be able to force the Rhine. He had heard it was wide and deep, and protected by steep cliffs. Logically, he thought that the plan would be to force the defeat and the destruction of the Americans on the relatively flat terrain he’d been told lay between the Weser and the Rhine, and then drive on to the ocean. Amsterdam or Antwerp seemed the most probable ultimate targets. Maybe then they could stop fighting.

Suslov climbed out of his tank and landed awkwardly on the ground. His whole body ached. He stretched and tried to loosen up. It scarcely worked.

“We need some food,” Suslov said.

“I’d like a cigarette and something to drink,” said Latsis. “Some schnapps if we can’t find some decent vodka. After that I’d like a piece of ass and a bath.”

Suslov shook his head. At least Latsis hadn’t begun his tirade about killing Germans. Perhaps he was getting over his hate. “Ivan, something tells me if you bathe first you might be more likely to get the piece of ass than if you bathed after.”

Latsis actually laughed. “Fuck you, comrade Commander.”

Comrade Boris, the political officer, heard that and scowled disapprovingly at Latsis. “You should be thinking more of destroying our enemies than your own comforts.”

Suslov could almost feel Latsis’s contempt for their new commissar. Some of the political officers shared the privations of the men they were there to inspire, but not so Comrade Boris. His uniform was clean and his belly looked full.

“We will be resting and refitting here for a few days,” Boris said, “and then we will lead the final assault that will destroy the capitalist allies of the Nazis.”

Latsis smiled. He had picked up on the word
we
. “Ah, Comrade Boris, does this mean that you will be with us when we cross this fucking river? If you’d like, we’ll be happy to make room for you in our tank so you can inspire us properly.”

Boris flushed. “I will be with you, although not likely in your tank.” Then it was Boris’s turn to smile. “I don’t think you need me to lead you. All you have to do is think of the Americans’ treachery.” With that, he turned and left.

Latsis shook his head. “Suslov, were you impressed?” he whispered.

“I was more impressed that you didn’t tell him to go fuck himself like you do me all the time.”

G
ENERAL
G
EORGE
P
ATTON
raised a glass of red wine to his guest, Dwight Eisenhower. “Here’s to victory,” he said, “and to hell with the Russians.” They were at Patton’s headquarters near Bamburg, Germany.

Ike smiled. “Simple and elegant, George. Just like yourself.”

“Just my way of saying I’m ready now. Why don’t you turn me loose?”

Ike shook his head. As usual, Patton was being overoptimistic regarding the capabilities of his reinforced Third Army.

“George,” he said tolerantly, “you know why I can’t let you attack just yet. We don’t have the strength. Hell, I don’t know when we’ll ever be strong enough to attack the Russians.”

“Even a small attack would delay an attack on Antwerp,” Patton insisted stubbornly. “It’d make them use their oil, and maybe some reinforcements would arrive for us.”

Ike had known Patton for decades and they had been the closest of friends, even to the extent of sharing wild and improbable peacetime adventures when they were both in their twenties.

But sometimes Patton was exasperating. That, of course, was part of Ike’s reason for being present at Patton’s HQ—to make sure Patton understood exactly what was expected of them.

“But that’s what we want them to do,” Ike insisted. “The last thing we want is for them to dig in along their bank of the Weser and proclaim the end of the war. Do you think anyone relishes the thought of attacking the Russians while they are still so strong? They have to attack and we have to wear them down. They stop attacking and we have lost.”

Prior to the Soviet assault, Patton had received heavy infusions of men and equipment that made his Third Army almost the same size as an army group. The Soviet attack had pushed Patton slightly to the south while Simpson was bearing the brunt of Zhukov’s attack. Both armies were heavily outnumbered by the Soviets.

“George, we are starting to kill the Reds in the air, and that’s where you’re going to win the tank war. For some reason, probably lack of fuel, the Russians aren’t as aggressive anymore in providing cover for their tanks, and that’s when you are going to start chewing them up. We estimate our tank losses to date have been roughly equivalent to theirs, but about eighty percent of our kills on their armor have been from air strikes. That’s where they are vulnerable and that’s where you are going to kill them.”

“Ike, don’t you think they’re saving their planes for their big push? I would.”

“I don’t know. I would save them, sure, but not at the price they’re paying in armor and men. No, I’ve got a feeling we are really winning the air war. I’m getting reports that their pilots, when they do go up, aren’t as good as they used to be either. When you attack, your planes will make the difference, not your tanks.”

“I know,” Patton said grudgingly. He was a cavalry man and wanted his outgunned Sherman tanks to run wild against the Soviets. He knew it wasn’t going to happen that way as things currently stood.