Red Inferno: 1945 (35 page)

Incredibly, Rudnev took yet another drink. “You make a good point. Everyone is aware of the situation here and your failure to kill the Americans. Frankly, General Bazarian, there are those who laugh at you.”

Bazarian’s temper flared, but he held it in check. It was still another act of Russian arrogance in dealing with non-Russians. Rudnev might be an animal, but he was a Russian animal and, thus, part of the elite. With the greatest of efforts he controlled himself and did not draw his pistol to kill this little shit of an ape.

Rudnev continued, completely unaware of the effect his comment had had on Bazarian. “I was not aware that your failure was due to the fact that you had been deprived of weapons. Considering the circumstances we both are in, I would gladly use my forces to assist you in reducing Potsdam, but I am concerned about American planes.”

“Do not worry, comrade General. I have planned the attack for night, and I have it on good authority that the weather to the west is worsening. There will be overcast skies when we attack.” Bazarian was lying. Although he would try to attack at night, he knew absolutely nothing about the weather to the west.

“Then I am your man, comrade General Bazarian.”

“I am delighted, comrade General Rudnev.” Bazarian smiled like a salesman, and the two men shook hands. He was also aware that the little ape had said he would assist, not place himself under the command of Bazarian. It was half a loaf at best, but he would take it.

Rudnev stood to leave. He was a little unsteady but otherwise able to navigate his way out of the cottage Bazarian was using as his personal quarters.

Rudnev stopped and turned. “I want a woman.”

“I’ll send a couple over for you to choose from.” Bazarian amused himself by pretending to be surprised. He thought fucking a horse or cow might be more up Rudnev’s alley. The thought of one of his women rutting with the little ape upset him a little. It had taken him several weeks to round up enough young and attractive German women to make life interesting. It hadn’t taken much effort to get them to agree to giving him sex. All he had to do was offer the carrot of food and shelter, and the stick of being turned over to his troops to be gang-raped if they said no.

Well, he thought, let Rudnev screw his little brains out. Bazarian had seen Rudnev’s brigade. Eighty tanks, in all, and sixty of them the giant new JS model. There was nothing in Potsdam to stop Stalin tanks if they were used properly. Finally, he would take that city and still the laughter coming from the arrogant shits in Moscow.

“D
ORTMUND
,” G
ENERAL
B
RADLEY
said. “There’s no doubt about it; not that there ever was. They’ve been driving straight toward the depots at Dortmund and they are not even attempting a pincers movement to reach the Rhine. They’ve given up all attempts at trapping us on this side of the Rhine.”

Ike had earlier come to that conclusion. The lack of an enveloping maneuver had confirmed it. The Russians had used a pincers strategy whenever practicable. They’d done it at Stalingrad and, later, at Berlin. Their change of strategy in the north had come as a slight surprise, although not totally unexpected considering the prize the Russians saw awaiting them at Dortmund.

Bradley frowned. “And they’re moving in great strength. We’ve identified two rifle armies, as well as two tank armies. It also looks like another tank army, the Third, has been moved up in reserve and will be crossing the Weser at any time.”

The 3rd Guards Tank Army had previously been identified as belonging to Koniev. That meant, in the week and a half since the initial assault on the Weser, the Russians had successfully put five armies on the American side, with a sixth about to cross over. It was only seventy-five miles from the Weser to Dortmund; Russians had already taken Paderborn and were more than halfway there. According to intelligence, the Russians, despite the enormous casualties they’d sustained, still had more than a million men thrusting toward that city like some giant convulsive animal.

Yet the attack was on a relatively narrow front with Simpson’s First Army as it’s focus, which left it potentially vulnerable to attacks on its flanks. Inside the Russian attacking front was an immense compression of men and equipment. So far, the U.S. Army had been unable to contain its advance.

Ike puffed on one of the cigarettes he chain-smoked. “It certainly proves that our attacks on their supplies and transportation network have paid off. It looks to me like a move based on sheer desperation. They must be in even worse shape than we dreamed of for them to distort their offensive objectives like they have. I’d say they’ve totally forgotten about Antwerp as their primary objective. At least for the time being.”

Ike’s thoughts were interrupted by a clerk informing him that they had Patton on the line. Ike took the telephone handed to him. “George, how’s it going?”

“Ike, we kicked off just before dawn and are making some gains against damn stiff resistance.”

Patton’s limited counterattack had been reluctantly approved and was planned merely to disrupt the Russian offensive, which was proving far stronger than expected. It was hoped that the Russians would have to shift some troops to defend themselves from being cut off, or that Patton would be allowed to run wild in their rear. All of this supposed that Patton would be able to punch through them. Patton was saying the going was slow, which meant that he was failing.

Bradley slipped Ike a note. He read it and his face turned crimson. He looked at Bradley, who turned away. “George,” he said grimly, “are you using German tanks in your attacks?”

“Hell, yes. Got me a couple hundred Panthers and about fifty Tigers heading up my Shermans. They’re a helluva lot better than anything we have. The kraut tanks were scattered all over southern Germany, and it took us a while to assemble and repair them, and put U.S. designations on them just like the air force did with the jets, but they’re working just fine. Why, is that a problem?”

“I don’t know,” said Ike. “That might just depend on who’s driving them.”

There was a pause. “Aw, hell, Ike, do you really want to know?”

Eisenhower thought that one over. Did he really want to know what the devil his most irrepressible and irresponsible subordinate was up to?

“George, are you using Germans to crew those tanks?”

There was another pause. Finally, “Yes.”

“George, you know we can’t do that.”

“Yeah,” Patton interrupted, “and it makes no sense. We get to use the krauts as pilots for their jets, and as antiaircraft gunners, but not as tank drivers to fight the Russians. And don’t tell me Brad’s not using those German-crewed antiaircraft guns as antitank weapons, either. Hell, I know I am.”

Ike shook his head. Patton had a point. The policy regarding Germans was inconsistent and flawed. And, yes, Bradley was indeed using German-crewed antiaircraft guns to kill tanks. But a promise had been made, both by Ike to Marshall and by Patton to Ike. The Luftwaffe was considered probably clean of war crimes, while the ground troops were the ones more likely to have committed atrocities. Although he realized that most of them probably had not, some doubtless had. The thought of GIs serving alongside some of the people who had butchered Jews and other innocent people was as repugnant to him as it would be to the American people.

Patton continued. “Ike, I won’t bullshit you. I always had every intention of using every weapon I could possibly get my hands on to defeat the Russians. But I’m only using regular German soldiers and not the SS. This isn’t tiddleywinks or football, Ike, this is war, and I don’t give a damn what or how I have to do to win. I will do it.”

Patton actually laughed. His normally high-pitched voice sounded tinny over the phone. “Y’know, I kinda think Marshall suspects what we’re doing. After all, isn’t he the one who conned Truman into letting us use the antiaircraft guns and crews in the first place? Don’t tell me he didn’t know they could be used to kill tanks as well.

“As to Truman? Hell, let him fire me. Ten dollars says he won’t do anything until the war’s over and then he’s going to try to hush it all up. Not even Truman would fire a general whose only crime is cheating to win a war.”

Ike quietly admitted that Patton had a point.

“Hell, Ike, you can never have enough weapons. Besides, if I want to make a real mark on history, this is my only time around.”

Eisenhower hung up. He would deal with Patton later. After all, there was the possibility that Patton would be proven right. Winners are honored and losers face humiliation. It was entirely likely that Patton would get a medal for his act of disobedience. It wouldn’t be the first time. But now he would work with Bradley as he dealt with the main thrust of the Russian armies nearing Dortmund. At the rate they were going, the Russian armored columns would be there in a couple of days.

What would the Russians do when they reached that town? What would their reaction be?

T
HE LONG BARREL
of the 88 mm gun was twisted back as if it were a toy destroyed by a large and malevolent child. Beside it were the blackened and torn bodies of its crew. Germans, Suslov thought. Goddamn Germans. They wore American uniforms, but their ID said they were German. They were not the first dead Germans in American uniforms he had seen in the last few days, nor, he surmised, would they be the last.

German ground participation on the American side had come as a bitter surprise to them all. So too had the manner in which the Germans had fought them. The 88 mm guns that had proven so effective against Russian armor in the past had been arrayed against the onrushing Soviet tanks. Flashes of light from their dug-in positions and the crash of hot metal against Soviet tanks brought back terrible memories. He could still hear the screams of crews from those tanks with radios as they cried out for help from the flaming hell their tanks had become.

Yet the Red Army had persevered and punched through still another defensive line. In a little while they would reach the Dortmund area, where they had been told all manner of supplies waited for them to feast on, supplies that they desperately required. Suslov thought it would be heavenly, except there was no heaven in Stalin’s Russia.

First and foremost the tanks needed diesel and the other vehicles needed gasoline. Next, they needed weapons and ammunition. Many of the Russian guns had been destroyed. Some didn’t particularly like the idea of using American weapons, but there was no other alternative.

Food was also in short supply. Much of their supplies were brought up to the front on horseback and, therefore, not a prime target for the menacing planes, but even that flow had slowed down lately as there was little food to bring. A good number of the horses had already been eaten and many men were becoming weak from hunger.

The Yanks had proven to be no fools. While not exactly incorporating a scorched-earth policy, they had made certain that there was little to sustain an advancing army. It was August, and there was no sign that any crops had been planted in the fields they passed, which also meant there would be mass starvation if the war continued much longer.

They drove forward. There was only sporadic resistance. They concluded that the last line of guns they’d confronted and destroyed must have been the final Yank defenses before Dortmund. After a few more miles, they saw evidence of a major military presence in the form of heavily traveled roads and military signs they couldn’t read. They followed one road and soon came to a sight that took their breath away. Thousands of fuel drums and thousands more large wooden crates were stacked in an open area that covered hundreds of acres. For Suslov and the others, it was a vision of paradise.

Almost shyly, Suslov and the other tankers drove toward their salvation. Grinning like children, they stopped, hopped down, and ran to a fuel drum. It was heavy and the contents sloshed.

“Open it and see if it’s diesel,” Suslov ordered. “I can’t read this shit the Americans call writing.”

Latsis and Popov pried open the small lid where the spout would go. Latsis almost stuck his nose inside. He looked up, puzzled.

“What is it?” Suslov said, walking over and looking in.

“I don’t know.” Latsis tilted the barrel so that some of the clear liquid ran out. “Shit, it’s water.”

Quickly, they checked some of the other barrels. They all contained either water or sand. They pried open a number of crates and found them filled with earth or rocks or junk. They heard cries of dismay as other tank crews made the same discovery.

Suslov felt dread. “They fucked us. The Americans totally fucked us. There’s nothing here but shit. We fought all this way to get here and there’s nothing.”

Suslov and the others sat on the ground by their tank. Despair hung over them. There was no food and no fuel. They could not go forward and they wondered if they could go back. Back to what? Suslov wondered aloud, and the others agreed. They looked at the sky.

For the time being at least, they were free of Yank planes. Even the Americans got tired once in a while and had to stop. But the planes would be back. And so too would the American armies that had been retreating all this time. The dummy supply depot meant that the Americans knew how critical the Russian supply situation was.

“Latsis, how much fuel do we have?”

Latsis used a twig as a dipstick to check the tank. The scowl on his face was half the answer. “If we’re real careful, don’t have to detour, and don’t have to ride fast, we might make it back to the Weser.”

“What about the Rhine? We’re actually closer to it than we are to the Weser, aren’t we?”

“Yes, comrade Commander, we are. But the Yanks will probably resist us, which will prevent us from driving in a straight line. Therefore, we will likely have to get out and push before we reach it.”

Disheartened and hungry, they waited through the night. Their only orders told them to capture the supplies that were supposed to be outside Dortmund. They could only guess that higher-ups were trying to figure out their next move.

At dawn, Boris the commissar arrived from brigade HQ. He was riding a mangy-looking horse, and not driving a jeep or staff car. He was also drunk and nearly fell down while dismounting.