The End of War - A Novel of the Race for Berlin - [World War II 02] (63 page)

Zhukov has issued new orders to regroup and reorganize his artillery and scattered armor. In addition, at this moment eight hundred Soviet bombers hammer German positions on the Heights to deny the enemy rest and take out more of their artillery. Advance groups of Chuikov’s Eighth Guards have already entered the town’s outskirts and soon will take control of several houses at key road approaches.

Stalin does not hear any report from his general on casualties. Zhukov assumes, correctly, that Stalin is not interested.

Zhukov says, “By midnight we should have a foothold.”

Stalin looks at his watch. He is not impressed with a foothold in Seelow. He wants Berlin. “Are you sure you will take the Seelow Heights tomorrow?”

“You have my assurance, Comrade Stalin. Tomorrow.”

“I will expect confirmation of that.”

“Comrade.”

Stalin adopts a weary tone.

“Yes.”

“This might not be entirely a bad thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“The more troops the enemy throws in to counter us in Seelow, the quicker we’ll be able to take Berlin. It will be easier to destroy their forces here on an open battlefield than in a fortified city.”

“This is not sounding easy, General.”

“No, Comrade.”

Stalin thinks it is time to put away the crop and take out the lash.

“Koniev is making very good progress.”

Zhukov clears his throat.

“Excellent.”

“We have been thinking of ordering Koniev to swing both his tank armies from the south toward Berlin. Also, it might be a good idea to have Rokossovsky speed up crossing the Oder to strike at Berlin from the north.”

Stalin hears nothing from the phone. Again in his mind he sees proud Zhukov grimace under the stripe of the whip. Zhukov wants Berlin, his page in military history. Stalin doesn’t care who takes the damn city, just take it.

“General.”

“Comrade, I agree that Koniev’s force might make such a maneuver at this time. However, I must advise, the northern army could not possibly mount an attack on Berlin for at least another week.”

The point is made, Stalin thinks. Do not beat the mule too much, or he won’t sting enough when you do.

Whoever’s standing near this mule is going to hear him bray and perhaps get a swift kick. Right now.

“General.”

“Yes?”

“Da svidaniya.”

Stalin hangs up.

* * * *

TEN

April 17, 1945, 0040 hours

On the slope of the Seelow Heights

Germany

en die by the light of burning tanks.

Ilya does not hear his own running boots or his heaving breath, not the weapons bouncing on his back and at his waist. The wrench of steel and the sizzle of gunpowder forge a gauntlet of pandemonium on all sides. He lowers his head and bolts through it. He waits for the rip of shrapnel into his body, somewhere, and readies himself to keep running even after it hits.

The surprise and stealth of night are gone, there is so much flame around. Troops and tanks alike are blasted by German 88mm and 155mm guns, firing over open sights at point-blank range. Tanks reel off the road one after another. Many explode and never move again; tanks behind have to shove them out of the way or maneuver around them across the slope. Men pour out of hatches to escape frying inside their armor; lit by the flaring of their machines, many are shot down by small arms fire and machine guns.

Ilya dodges but keeps his direction, north across the face of this last hill. He doesn’t fire his gun, doesn’t even have it in his hand. This is not his fight. These tanks have been ordered up here where they have no business trying to wage an infantry-style battle. Ilya’s company has been sent elsewhere, into the northern rim of Seelow. This flaming, useless battle of giants lies in their path.

The only thing human Ilya hears is Misha’s voice. The little sergeant belts, ”Go! Go!” at Ilya’s back. Misha runs very fast when there is shooting. Ilya does not speed up, even with Misha nearing at his heels. No matter how methodically Ilya travels through the battle, Misha will not get in front.

Ilya leads his platoon to every broken, burning tank in his way, dashing from one to the next. The Germans turn their fire away from these targets to concentrate on more prominent enemies. What Ilya sees makes him glad he’s always been a foot soldier; he is nimble next to these behemoths. He’s a smaller mark, harder to kill. In his experience, in this kind of close-quarters fight, one man on the loose is more dangerous than any tank.

It takes eight minutes to reach the other side of the skirmish. Ilya squats behind a rock outcropping. He catches his breath and waits for Misha and the rest of the platoon to assemble. The battle sounds like a blacksmith’s shop, the clouting of metal against metal—
p-tang!
—the warble of flames, woofing guns. The platoon rushes to the safety of the rock and the shadows, some arrive shaking their heads. Ilya counts. There are forty-four left of the fifty he started with this morning. Three of the men did not make it past the Haupt Canal, three more did not last through the tanks tonight. In between, the platoon spent the day lying flat against the Seelow slope, not able to move ahead and drawing little attention from the Germans. They were ordered to wait for nightfall, then enter the town.

Ahead of them are the seared remains of a small wood. The grade here is gradual. If they move with care, the platoon can blend with the charcoaled trunks. Ilya doesn’t know where the rest of the company is; the other hundred men may still be mired back in the firefight alongside the tanks. They’ll make their way when they can. His forty-five will push on into Seelow.

Another five hundred meters, at the crest of the road they just ran across, stand their objectives. Three stone buildings flank the paved entry into the town. So long as these structures remain in German hands they make access into town impossible for those tanks that survive the night. By daybreak, Ilya’s company must control all three buildings. His platoon must take one.

Ilya checks the men. He readies himself to move into the trees.

“Sergeant Bakov.”

Misha slides closer. The scar across his cheek and the missing lobe sometimes make Misha look unpredictable, like an ill-tempered little dog, a biter.

“Yes, Ilya?”

Misha has not yet called him “Lieutenant.”

“When we reach the top of the street, we divide by squads into four storm groups. We take the first house facing the slope. Leave the others.”

“Got it.”

“You remember the street-fighting lessons?”

“Yes.”

“Top floor. Middle floors. Then ground floor.”

“Yes.”

“Attack from all directions possible.”

“I know.”

“You’ll lead one of the squads.”

“Me? I ... Ilya ... I thought you and I would ...”

“You, Misha.”

Ilya stands. Misha stays crouched.

“Give them their orders, Sergeant. Then let’s move.”

Misha looks off into the dark. The little man nods as if to some fate he has displeased and now must agree to serve. Ilya turns his eyes to the ruined forest. He picks a path through it, again heading for the spots of greatest devastation. This reduces the chance of trip wires and unexploded mines.

He waits for Misha to round among the men, explaining their task and giving assignments. Ilya will lead none of the squads. He’ll work alone as he sees fit. One man, on the loose.

Misha returns.

“The men understand.”

“Good.”

“Ilya.”

Ilya licks his lips at another pause for Misha.

“What.”

“Pretty soon this is all going to be over, you know.”

Ilya considers this. He’s lost touch with that thought, of the war being over. In the past four months he’s done the job at hand, killing those Germans set out before him. He’s accepted promotion and leadership duties without letting those things interfere. Ilya has little faith that war will allow him to see its end, no matter how many dead pile up, no matter how faithfully he serves its purpose. After Berlin there will be more enemies. The Americans. The Poles. The Japanese. Maybe Russian against Russian. Who knows? Someone. The notion of no war eludes him.

“Before we’re done,” Misha says, “the day is coming, you know. When you’ll follow me.”

Ilya lowers his voice.

“You care, don’t you. About that sort of thing. Who follows who.”

“Yes. I thought you did too. You used to.”

Ilya looks behind Misha to the road and fields of burning tanks, he sees a man running in flaming clothes. What difference does it make, when you go into that, who goes first?

He thinks of the sixty prisoners. Which one of them died first? Did he get somewhere faster? Who fired first? Did Misha? Is he more damned or blessed for it?

Ilya brings his eyes back to Misha.

“All sorts of days are coming,” he says, hefting his machine gun. “Maybe even that one. Let’s move.”

Ilya steps away into the trees. The platoon rises behind him, splitting into quarters. Misha fades from his side.

The tramp up the rest of the hill is without incident. The men disappear into the dark, spreading among the stout sticks of trunks. Ilya moves ahead on his own.

One hundred meters from the crown of the road, a white flare rockets into the air. The men know what to do: sprint forward until the first bullets fly, gain all the free ground you can. Then drop to cover and begin your attack. On all sides of him the platoon races up the hill.

Another flare follows. Ilya lags back, to watch the assault mount on the building. The first reports of German machine guns slap at the men out of the face of the building. The platoon doesn’t answer yet. They’re still taking ground. Good. Under the flares Ilya sees what they’re up against.

The three buildings at the head of the road are arranged around a traffic circle, with a pedestal in the center that likely held a fountain or some statue until a shell found it. Each building is three stories tall. Their roofs have been sheared off by bombs. Some windowsills show soot over them like black eyebrows; they’ve been on fire, but weren’t gutted enough to keep them from being used as fortresses. There’s no way these buildings can be surrounded; the center will be a dead zone until at least one of the targets falls. Misha didn’t see a map, or he certainly would have known they were arranged in a ring.

Now the platoon opens up. The stones on one face of the facade zing with bullets. Another flare goes up. Ilya spots squads hustling left and right of the building. The windows on the top two floors disappear in a mist of dust and ricochet.

Flares shoot up from the other two buildings. Windows in them flicker with muzzle flashes. The red-spark trail of a
Panzerfaust
flies out of one to blow a hole in the dirt. One of the squads has headed into a cross fire. In minutes they’re forced to retreat. Without the rest of the company here to launch assaults on the other buildings, only one face of their target can be covered.