Red Inferno: 1945 (9 page)

The sound of a window opening in the next room sent a chill down his spine. Should he run? Should he fight? If intruders were inside, they were probably outside the house as well, and, besides, where could he run to? He hunched over and walked to the doorway, took a deep breath, and lunged in, his rifle at the ready.

A small, thin, ragged man sat on the floor while another dangled awkwardly from the window, his head and chest inside the room and the remainder of his body still outside. They were both dirty and emaciated, and his first impression was that of human rodents. They were wearing what he immediately realized was some kind of prison uniform. The second man slid onto the floor and they both raised their hands stiffly in surrender and glared at him and his rifle in feral anger. Tony had never seen humans who looked so much like tortured animals.

For what seemed an eternity they stared at each other. Finally, the first man inside muttered something at him that Tony didn’t understand but thought was German. The man then followed in what Tony took to be French. Perplexed, Tony asked if either man spoke English.

The man who had just come through the window responded, showing a mouth full of rotten teeth as he looked down the barrel of the menacing rifle. “I do,” he said with a heavy accent that Tony didn’t recognize.

They seemed to relax slightly, although they never took their sunken eyes off Tony’s weapon. Apparently, English-speaking people were not their enemy. “Now,” asked Tony, “who the hell are you and what are you doing here.”

The English-speaker responded, talking hesitantly, as if he was trying to recall the words. “We are refugees. The Nazis forced us to leave our homes and work for the Germans in their factories. We are both from Poland. As is apparent, I speak English somewhat while my friend speaks it only a little. My name is Vaslov and his is Anton. Are you British?”

“American,” Tony answered, and they both looked incredulous, fear immediately disappearing.

“The Americans are here?” Vaslov asked, disbelief evident in his voice.

“We were,” Tony said ruefully, and explained that the Russians had ambushed the column. The information appeared to stun the two Poles.

Vaslov spoke solemnly. “If the Russians and you Yanks are fighting, this war could last a very long time and make our lives very, very dangerous.”

Tony hadn’t thought about the time factor. For some reason he’d felt his ordeal would be a short one. Now he had to rethink his position. “Are you Communists?” he asked.

“No,” they answered quickly. Vaslov explained that they feared the Russians as much as they feared the Germans, as both had taken turns devouring their country. “Either will kill us,” he said. “They are both beasts. One of the reasons the Germans imprisoned us was because we were part of the democracy movement. The Russians would not be gentler. They hate and fear the intelligentsia.”

Vaslov curled his lips. “What’s that smell?” When Tony explained about the bodies upstairs, both Vaslov and Anton smiled grimly. “Good. When it is real bad, no one will come in here. If we can stand it, we can remain here in some safety.”

Tony thought about it and agreed. “Hell, we can always go out and find some more corpses if we have to, to sweeten the joint.”

The two former slave workers chuckled at the macabre thought of dead Germans protecting them from discovery by the Russians. Cautiously, they talked through the afternoon. They decided they were in a fairly strong position. They had a weapon and they had food, although it would now have to be split three ways. They had a house and it would serve as a place to hide. They would stay there until they were either rescued or they thought it might be safe to try and head west from Berlin.

Tony asked, “What do you suggest we do while we are waiting?”

“Well,” said Vaslov. “I would suggest we kill Nazis, although I think they are fast disappearing. It seems that the new enemy is Russia. Would you like to kill them?”

Tony the Toad smiled. He thought about Ernie and his buddies burning to death while trying to get out of the Sherman. Brentwood had died as well. He’d been an asshole, but he didn’t deserve to bake. Killing Russians would be dangerous and they must not be so reckless as to invite discovery, but he thought they might be able to hurt the Commies and get some small measure of revenge.

Yes, he would indeed like to kill Russians.

CHAPTER 8

O
utside, the spring sun was bright and warm. This made the air inside the squad bunker stifling and hot, a foretaste of what the summer would bring.

First Sergeant Stan Krenski hunched down and entered the bunker through the low and small entrance in the rear. An angular and raw-boned man, he was not as tall as he sometimes appeared, and was only slightly taller than Logan.

“Jesus, it stinks in here,” Krenski said in mock dismay. “Doesn’t anybody shower anymore?”

Logan looked blandly at the others. He knew they were all pigs. “Why, I bathed just a little while ago. How about you guys?” The remainder of the squad assured Krenski that they had not only bathed but generously doused themselves with cologne in the last hour. It was a running gag. They all were filthy and stank to high heaven.

Krenski laughed and wiped his own dirty, sweaty brow. “Nice job,” he said admiringly as he looked around. The bunker was roofed with metal beams over which there were thick layers of sandbags and earth. The walls were similarly constructed and firing slits faced in all directions in case someone infiltrated behind them. Much of the material for this and the many other fortifications had been liberated from the nearby buildings. There was additional joking that the American army had done more damage to Potsdam than the American air force.

“Thanks,” said Logan. “Now, for God’s sake, Sarge, don’t tell us we’ve got to move someplace else. A helluva lot of work went into making this pleasure palace the beautiful creation that it is.”

Krenski took off his helmet and wiped his forehead. “Nope. I came to tell you that the captain wishes to see you, Sergeant Logan, and right away. I’ll stay here and admire how you put this place together while you and him talk.”

Logan grabbed his helmet and rifle and left the bunker for the short walk to the captain’s headquarters. Shit, he thought as he stepped outside, what the hell did Captain Dimitri want? Was he still pissed off because Lieutenant Singer got hit? Hell, that wasn’t his fault. Wasn’t anybody’s, really. Dimitri, who was usually around all the time, had been conspicuous by his absence for the last day or so. What did that mean?

Logan ducked his head as he entered Dimitri’s command bunker and took off his helmet.

Captain Dimitri was seated behind a makeshift desk made of planks. He did not look up from his papers. “Singer lost his arm, you know.”

Damn, thought Logan, he is pissed. “I’m not surprised, sir, it was pretty well gone when we got him to the aid station. I didn’t think anything short of a miracle was going to save it, and I haven’t seen many miracles lately.”

Finally, Dimitri looked up. Logan saw sadness in his face, but not anger. “Singer could have been a good officer. Now he gets to go home the first time we figure out how to get people out of here.”

“I liked him,” Logan said sincerely. “You’re right. He wanted to learn and to do the right thing.”

Logan felt a little guilty that he had not had an opportunity to visit Singer in the hospital. He made a mental note to rectify the problem. While the last few days had consisted of a lot of work, there still had been some free time during which he could have gone.

Dimitri nodded. “Sit down.” Logan pulled up a crate and complied. “But that’s not why I called for you. By the way, you stink and look like shit. Starting tomorrow we will be offering showers on a rotation basis and, with luck, you’ll be getting one about every week or so. The engineers have figured out a way to pump, strain, and somewhat purify the water from the river so we can bathe in it, but for Christ’s sake, tell your men not to swallow it or cook with it. That damn river is still stuffed full of corpses.”

“Yes, sir.”

Logan knew all about boiling the water for drinking and cooking, and had seen the swollen and rotting bodies of people and animals float slowly by. The news about showers would definitely cheer up his platoon. Maybe they could even do laundry. Maybe they could even get real food instead of rations. He never thought he would long for the dubious pleasures of a mess hall, but he did now.

Dimitri started speaking again, ending Logan’s thoughts. “For the second time in two months, your damned platoon needs an officer, and it’s highly unlikely we are going to get one from outside. I made a proposal and it went all the way up and everyone concurs. Congratulations, Jack, you are now an officer and a gentleman.”

Logan was stunned. “You’ve got to be joking, sir.”

Dimitri grinned. “I never joke. You know that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold bars of a second lieutenant. “Here, these used to be mine. Just don’t go wearing them until we get our asses out of this place. Snipers are attracted to shiny things.”

Logan took them, his mind awhirl. “But what about Sergeant Krenski. He’s the most senior NCO in the company.”

“Don’t worry about Krenski, Sergeant—I mean Lieutenant Logan—I’ve taken care of him.”

“Captain, I don’t understand. With all of Krenski’s experience, he’d be a great officer.”

“Disagree, Jack. He’s a great NCO. He’d be a shitty officer. He’s not officer material.”

Logan was puzzled. “Can I ask why? What you said almost sounds elitist, and I know you’re not that way.” Dimitri had commented several times on the fact that his parents were poor immigrants from Greece and how hard they had worked to achieve what they felt was success.

Dimitri chuckled. “I’m disappointed in you, Jack. You’ve been working with the man for months and you really don’t know a thing about him. Tell me, what’s the first thing he does when he gets a written order?”

“Uh, he usually fumbles for his reading glasses, which he can never find. He lost them a while ago, so he gives the papers to someone else to read for him.” Logan paused as the truth dawned. “Oh shit, he can’t read, can he?”

“Bingo,” said the captain. “Krenski’s thirty years old and has been in the army since he lied his way in at sixteen. He can read a little, very damn little, but he’s pretty much illiterate. That, my new lieutenant, is why he will not take over the platoon. In case you’re curious, he came to me when he thought I might promote him and told me his story. Bottom line, the man was terrified we’d make him an officer. He’ll be delighted that you got it instead, and he can stay as my senior NCO.”

Logan chuckled. “I’ll keep his secret.”

“Good, now let’s walk over to your platoon so I can formally introduce you in case they think you’re lying about the promotion.”

When the two men entered Logan’s bunker, they were surprised to find the entire platoon assembled.

“I took the liberty, Captain,” said a grinning Sergeant Krenski. “We’re gonna have a little party to celebrate, if you don’t mind, sir. Some of the guys, uh, managed to find and liberate some schnapps that might have otherwise fallen into the wrong hands. It would be an awful thing to have abused.”

I
N HIS HEADQUARTERS,
Major General Miller listened to the reports in icy fury. The Russians had begun shelling their positions. The barrage wasn’t all that heavy, but the unofficial truce was obviously over.

“Sir,” said Leland, “the artillery wants to fire back.”

“At what?” snapped Miller. “Do we know precisely where those shells are coming from?”

As he said that, a heavy one landed a hundred yards from where they were dug in and shook dirt from the roof. Miller was puzzled. Yes, the Reds were firing at them, but the effort seemed to be directed at nothing in particular. It was just a number of pieces of artillery lobbing shells into the perimeter without any direction or purpose at all. It didn’t make sense.

Captain Leland dusted himself off. “No, sir, we don’t really know where their batteries are. We can do some guessing and start shooting back, but God knows if we’ll hit anything.”

“Then hold fire,” Miller said. “No point in wasting ammunition and giving away the location of our own guns.” That, he thought wryly, presumed the Commies hadn’t already figured that out.

The situation was frustrating as well as puzzling. Despite the barrage, he really didn’t feel that his defenses were in any danger. Lookouts could see no troops or tanks moving up for an assault. It was as if a bunch of drunks had taken control of the Russian artillery and were having a good time.

“Any report on casualties?” Miller asked, and he was assured that all units were reporting nothing in the way of killed and only a few wounded. Of course, they all were dug in and hunkered down and only a direct hit would cause damage. He was told that a number of civilians had been killed and wounded, and he regretted not pushing them harder to dig their own shelters. The one-legged German, von Schumann, and his people were probably okay. Miller recognized the kraut as a survivor.

After a while, the firing ceased. “Now what the hell was that all about?” Miller wondered out loud.

“General,” called a sergeant with a radio headset over his ears. “We’re getting something from Ninth Army. Looks like the Nazis have just announced that Hitler is dead, committed suicide in his bunker in Berlin, and that some guy whose name sounds like Donuts is now in charge of Krautland.”

“Doenitz,” corrected Miller, stifling a smile. “He’s an admiral in their navy.”

Good God, he thought, could the shelling have been nothing more than a bunch of drunken Russians celebrating? The Commies might have gotten the news first, and God knew they had so much more reason to celebrate Hitler’s death. What did it mean for their situation in Potsdam? With Hitler out of the way, did it mean an end to the war with Germany? But did it mean the start of a new one with Russia?

General Miller checked the calendar on the wall and noted the date. It was April 30, 1945. What on earth was going to happen now?

Miller put on his helmet and stepped outside with a puzzled Captain Leland close behind. He decided he needed a dose of reality so he walked over to a nearby squad bunker and ducked in.

“ Ten-hut!” Leland ordered.

“Carry on,” Miller said. This was more like a normal army. However, it was definitely against regulations for enlisted men and officers to be drinking together. Damn, it was something else he would have to ignore.

“Gentlemen,” Miller said, “I have just heard that one Sergeant Logan has been promoted to lieutenant. I’ve also heard that Hitler is dead and I don’t know which is more important. If the rumor is true it’s great news. However, if Logan’s been promoted, then this army is doomed and we should all plan to surrender right now.”

There was stunned silence followed by hoots of laughter. “Congratulations, Lieutenant,” Miller said, and the two men shook hands. “The lieutenant and I go back a ways. When I first got to England, Mr. Logan was a mere corporal and got dragooned into driving for me. I knew he was officer material the first time he got behind the wheel and we nearly ran into an oncoming truck.”

“Sir, it wasn’t my fault,” Logan answered with a smile. The schnapps was very relaxing. Hitler was dead and he’d been promoted. Not a bad day at all. “Nobody told me those crazy Brits drove on the wrong side of the road.”

“Yes, but after two weeks you still hadn’t figured it out and you damn near got me killed a half-dozen times more. And besides, they think we’re the ones who are nuts for driving on the right.”

Miller eyed a half-full bottle of schnapps standing proudly on an empty ammo carton. Sergeant Krenski tentatively handed him a glass. Miller poured a decent portion and held up the glass. “Good luck, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And good luck to your men. They’re going to need it.”

Again, more good-natured hoots. Miller knew it was time to leave. He’d had his fun, and generals have a way of suffocating parties. If anyone asked whether he’d seen officers and enlisted men drinking together, he’d simply say that he’d seen them drinking separately but in the same room. Sometimes regulations are meant to be ignored.

He and Leland stepped outside into the bright sunlight. Logan followed them. “Who got the dollar?” Miller asked.

“The first sergeant, sir,” said Logan. Traditionally, the first person who salutes a brand-new second lieutenant got a dollar from him. “But I think he cheated.”

Miller laughed and walked away. Logan took in his new domain, which consisted of three bunkers in a couple of ruined buildings. It was not a magnificent kingdom. “Officer and a gentleman” had a nice ring to it, but what it really meant was additional responsibility and more work. Instead of a squad, he had a platoon of more than thirty men. He had to admit, though, he wasn’t displeased. He’d been chafing under the realization that he was capable of being more than an enlisted man, even a sergeant. A damn shame it had to come as a result of Singer’s destroyed arm.

A group of refugees was working at clearing the area of debris. He spotted the dark-haired girl he’d seen several times earlier. He’d never met her, but almost felt like he should apologize. She was so small and thin he’d first thought she was a child. He’d seen her a couple of times since then and realized she was a young woman, and not bad-looking at all.

She hung around a lot with that von Schumann character, and Logan wondered if she spoke English. It would be nice to talk to a young woman again. Hell, he laughed, it’d be nice even if she didn’t speak English.

A
SSISTANT
S
ECRETARY OF
S
TATE
D
EAN
A
CHESON
was shown almost immediately into the drab and spartan office of the Soviet ambassador, Andrei Gromyko. As always, the grim and unsmiling Russian dispensed with formalities and went to the heart of the matter. If Gromyko was upset that it was the lower-ranking Acheson and not Secretary of State Stettinius who had come in response to his summons, he made no comment. And if he was surprised that Natalie Holt followed Acheson, he again showed nothing, merely nodded as terse introductions were made.

The reasons for Natalie’s presence were twofold. First, she could translate if necessary, and second, Acheson and others wanted to gauge the Russian’s reaction on seeing her after Soviet goons had tried to kill her and Burke.