FORTY-FOURTH RESUPPLY COMPANY, HIGHWAY TWENTY-FOUR, GERMANY, 0630 HOURS GMT
Mickey Davis was a master scrounger. He was an old corporal—he had been sergeant, twice, busted back to private both times—and he was content with his role in this man’s army. Now he was driving a two-ton truck, a very nice improvement over the jeep that had been his faithful steed for most of the drive across Germany. But he had learned that, with a truck, his capacity for cargo—and, hence, profit—was dramatically improved.
Corporal Davis had been fortunate enough to get a job that was well in line with his talents. He was actually an official scrounger for his supply company, and neither his platoon sergeant nor his company commander were inclined to ask him too many questions about how he got his work done. That was just the way Davis liked it, because it gave him the freedom to do what he was doing today.
The big truck rumbled along the highway, going toward Berlin. In the back he had several radios, a dozen crates of rations, and twenty jerry cans filled with gasoline, all castoff material that he had found along the highway, in vehicles that had broken down and been left behind by the convoys of the Red Ball Express—the great trucking caravans that hauled supplies from the great ports, especially Antwerp, to the far-flung spearheads of the Allied Expeditionary Forces. That cargo, he could claim truthfully, was just proof that he was doing his job, making sure that nothing too valuable got left behind.
His real treasure was stored in a couple of cases up near the cab, plain crates marked TOOLS. One of them was completely filled with cigarettes, which were already becoming the currency of choice in postwar Europe. With them, he could buy women, beer, or anything else from Germans, and they weren’t bad for bargaining with the Brits, either. The second crate was even more valuable, however: That one rattled slightly from the bottles of fine brandy stacked there. It had a false bottom, with something like ten thousand dollars’ worth of gold and silver concealed beneath that; the booty of a few of his most lucrative transactions during the last nine months.
Mickey Davis would not be coming home from this war a poor man.
He spotted another target up ahead, a truck much like his own that was parked on the shoulder of the road, with the hood up. Probably just overheated, Davis figured, but the boys in the express were in too much of a hurry to take time out for such details. No doubt the driver hopped into another vehicle—Davis was unique, in that he usually traveled alone—and ridden on to Berlin, where he would report the breakdown. Sooner or later a maintenance crew would arrive to either fix the truck where it sat, or haul it to some motor pool for more involved work.
That suited Mickey just fine; he only needed five minutes with the broken-down truck in order to do his job. He slowed down, pulled over, and braked to a stop a dozen feet behind the other truck. The canvas flap on the back was loosely tied, but there was no sign of anyone left behind to guard it. That was not a surprise; what German civilian in his right mind was going to mess with the US Army?
He climbed right in the back and looked around, cursing as he saw that the bed of the truck had been picked pretty clean. Pushing back the flap, he was about to jump out and go around to check the cab when he heard the sound of an engine. He looked up and down the highway, couldn’t see anyone coming, but the sound continued to swell. Not just one engine, he realized, but lots of them.
When he looked up, he saw the airplanes, a great train of them growling through the clear blue sky. He had never been big on aircraft identification—that was too much like studying—but he guessed these were Allied bombers, returning from some raid or another. Maybe the war wasn’t quite as much over as he thought it was.
Then he saw the parachutes, scores, then hundreds of them popping into sight. They were clearly arrayed above the highway, and as they drifted earthward Davis figured that he was in the middle of some kind of huge drill. Several soldiers landed very nearby, crunching into the ground with force that seemed like it should have broken their legs. But they bounced to their feet, reaching for their rifles as if this was a real battlefield situation.
It was only then that Mickey started to notice some odd differences. Their uniforms were not quite olive drab, and those guns—he had never seen rifles like that before.
“Hey, guys,” he said, waving his hand and walking toward them. “What’s going—”
He never heard the gunshot, nor felt the bullet that killed him.
COMMUNIST CITIZENS’ CELL #435, POTSDAM, GERMANY, 1734 HOURS GMT
Franz Grubhof had been waiting for this moment for more years than he could remember … since before the start of the war, before even the ascendancy of Hitler to the rulership of Germany. Grubhof was a dedicated communist, and he had spent nearly a lifetime nourishing, cherishing that belief, and waiting for the day when he could strike a blow in the name of his cause.
That day had arrived.
His orders had been delivered by the man who was now in the rowboat with him, the stranger who had known the proper passwords—“Red sky tonight?”—and thus had been welcomed into Grubhof’s little apartment. From there they had gone to a boathouse on one of Potsdam’s many lakes, where they had encountered other members of the cell. They had paired up, two men—or women; Franz had noticed a couple of females among the two dozen provocateurs—per boat. Concealed in picnic baskets beneath the seats were strange packages, with timers. Grubhof knew that these were bombs.
Now, as they glided across the dark waters, he began to understand their target. There was a large span of concrete overhead, a causeway that ran for more than a mile through this shallow lake. Over that span passed the autobahn, the main highway connecting Berlin to the west.
Under that span, poking carefully among the sturdy concrete pilings, were twelve little rowboats, and twenty-four dedicated German communists.
NINETEENTH ARMORED DIVISION, LUCKENWALDE, GERMANY, 1735 HOURS GMT
“What the hell?” Frank Ballard charged out of the mess tent and looked to the south. Men were coming out of all the division’s buildings, looking in the same direction.
The sound of guns was loud, and all too close. “There must be a thousand pieces shooting down there,” murmurmed Major Diaz, with his artillerist’s ear. “They’re plastering the fields south of town.”
“We don’t have anyone down there, now, do we?” asked Ballard, knowing that any unfortunate persons caught in the blast zone were most likely already dead.
“Not that I know of. Smiggy’s men pulled back a few days ago—they’re still in the city.”
Ballard nodded. Smiggs was not his concern, not right now. “Get me some eyes out there,” he called, and a couple of privates took off in jeeps. “The rest of the combat command is going on full alert.”
An hour later he had his report: The barrage was intense, and it was slowly creeping northward, toward Luckenwalde—and the bivouac area of the Nineteenth Armored. Now the rounds were falling among the sheds and cottages at the fringe of the little town, and Ballard ordered his pickets to back up, out of harm’s way.
“Do you want me to start shooting back?” asked Diaz, getting ready to head back to his batteries, which were posted in several fields north of town.
Ballard, who had been unable to get through to Third Army HQ, shook his head. “You said they’re shooting a thousand guns at us? I don’t think they’d even notice your fifteen barrels shooting back. No, we’re going to have to skedaddle out of here.”
In fifteen minutes CCA was on the move, all the men riding in trucks, jeeps, and half-tracks, or on top of the tanks. They pulled out slowly, but within a few minutes after their departure the whole center of Luckenwalde was under fire. From a nearby hilltop Ballard watched the buildings that had been his HQ and mess hall for the last week get blasted into kindling.
“It’s like they’re herding us away, but not trying to kill us,” he told Wakefield, when they finally established a radio connection.
“Well, hell. Stay out in front of the barrage, but
try to keep an eye on ’em,” the division CO replied. “We’ve lost two of our three roads into Berlin. The only one left is the autobahn, and you can bet your ass we’re going to fight for it if they get that far.”
The formation withdrew to the north throughout the night, and the barrage chased after them. No one was killed, but the forward progress of the Russian shelling was inexorable, and frustrating. By dawn, Ballard’s HQ company was coming up on one of the lakes of Potsdam. He could see the long bridge of the autobahn before him, stretching across the placid water, and he knew they would have to be prepared to fight.
He was just about to order his men into deployments when he heard a massive explosion behind him. Ballard whirled, worried that the Russian attack had gotten behind him. There was no sign of anything, except a cloud of smoke drifting across the water. Only when that smoke started to clear did he realize the stark truth:
The autobahn bridge was gone.
25 MARCH 1945
SHAEF, REIMS, FRANCE, 0437 HOURS GMT
“We don’t have a single road into Berlin, is that right?” the Supreme Commander asked tiredly, rubbing his forehead. He had not been to bed, even as the dispatches from Berlin had slowed to a trickle through the long, dark night. But neither had there been any news that substantially changed the situation.
“I’m afraid not, General,” said Beetle Smith. “The Reds overran Highway One-Thirty-Five with Zhukov’s attack. Their paratroops grabbed Highway Twenty-Four, and they’re fortifying like crazy, until the ground troops get up.”
“And the autobahn was destroyed by goddamn communist saboteurs?” Ike demanded, already knowing the answer.
“Well, the long bridge is gone, yes sir. And with Konev’s men moving up from the south, it will be impossible for us to rebuild it in the foreseeable future.”
“So General Patton and Third Army—not to mention all the airborne troops, and a million German civilians—are surrounded by the Red Army. Cut off. Trapped.” He spat each painful word, and they were as harsh on his ears as they were on his tongue. Smith didn’t answer, and Ike drew a breath and continued.
“What we do have are airfields—at least a dozen landing strips within the ring, right?”
“Including Tempelhof and Gatow, sir, a couple of large airports.”
“Then that is our supply line. We’re going to feed those soldiers and civilians, and arm and resupply our boys, by air. At least until we see how this thing sorts out. Get me all the transport commands—I don’t care who you have to wake up. Better get ahold of Harris and the rest of the bomber generals, too. Before this thing is over, we might be using B-17s to haul grain.”
“Right away, General. Harris is already here, and the rest will be landing at Reims by dawn.”
General Eisenhower looked at the map, then turned his eyes to the sky that was still dark outside of his office window. It seemed that this war had changed a great deal since the sun had gone down the night before.
He could only wonder what the new day would bring.
27 MARCH 1945
POTSDAM, GERMANY, 0935 HOURS GMT
There were relatively few intact buildings in the city center, and that was a good argument for holding the truce meeting there—low risk of ambush. A Russian and an American Third Army crew had prepared the area overnight; there were white flags, a conference table, coffee service, the basics. Armed troops bristled along the edges like porcupine quills as the principals arrived: Zhukov and Konev from the Soviet side, along with two aides and a translator; Rommel and Patton from the SHAEF side with the same. Sanger felt lucky to have wangled a spot—but as the cars pulled out into no-man’s-land he wondered if he had outsmarted himself. It was mighty lonely and exposed out there.
There was a cease-fire in place; now they needed to make it official. The business of modern siegecraft now included the business of establishing a secure telephone link between the military headquarters of the opposing forces, making sure that it was monitored twenty-four hours a day, ensuring that minor incidents didn’t boil up into major ones, agreeing on protocols, even planning future meetings. Of course, most of the future meetings wouldn’t involve nearly so many stars.
The body language among the generals was very interesting. Zhukov and Patton were somewhat alike, as were Konev and Rommel. The resemblances were not close, but they were there. Zhukov and Patton were men who might have fought on the same side, had things worked out differently—though Patton was clear and unambiguous in his hatred of the Soviets. And Rommel was still an enemy even after changing sides, though an enemy who had never fought a Russian before.
The men got down to work.
PENTAGON, WASHINGTON, D.C., 1405 HOURS GMT
General Groves looked up as the secretary of war came through the door.
“Yes, Mr. Secretary?”
“You’ve heard the details about Berlin?”
“Yes, sir.” Nobody in the Pentagon had been talking about anything else for the last four days. “Patton is surrounded, but we’re keeping Third Army supplied by air. So far as it stands, we and the Russkis are not yet in a shooting war. Is that about it?”
“The high points, yes,” said Secretary Stimson, dryly. “I’ve just been to see the president.”
Groves raised his eyebrows, not because it was unusual for the secretary of war to visit his chief executive, but because the clear implication seemed to be that this meeting had something to do with him. Or at least, with his gadget.
“I’ve got the preliminary crews out on Tinian,” Groves said, referring to one of the Pacific islands, captured last year, that provided a bombing base for B-29s within range of the Japanese homeland. “But I’m guessing you’ll be putting that operation on hold.”
Stimson shook his head. “Not for sure, yet. Keep your boys at it, out in the Pacific. But we’re going to need a contingency plan—bases, security personnel, a new scheme of operations—in case there’s a change in the plan.”
“A change,” Groves said. “A big change, I take it?”
“The president doesn’t know for sure. But depending on the actions of that old crook in the Kremlin, there’s a chance that we’ll need your gadget in Europe.”
28 MARCH 1945
LONDON, ENGLAND, 2038 HOURS GMT
Kim Philby did not like odd feelings; it was too often the case that an odd feeling was the subconscious mind’s early-stage detection of proto-clues. Yet ever since he had begun his probe of the secret project code-named Tube Alloys there was a growing sense that something was not quite right.
He did not ignore his feeling. He paid careful attention to individuals and cars on the street, looking for anyone unfamiliar to him who showed up more often than chance would allow. He made some random variations in his routine to see who, if anyone, would shift along with him. Nothing. That meant little, of course. It was easy to detect one or two people spying on you, but a large enough team could rotate members in and out so as to blend seamlessly into the urban environment.
He could not stop his work; he continued his methodical inquiry. However, he made sure that his passport and travel documents were easily accessible at all times, that he had sufficient liquidity for a rapid getaway, that his multiple preplanned escape routes were all still there. If he needed to, he could jump with a rapidity that would surprise even experienced professionals. He would not be brought easily to bay.
He finished his curry, sitting at a table facing the restaurant door, patted his mouth with his napkin, left money for bill and tip, took coat and umbrella from the stand, and walked out, tipping his hat to the lovely sari-clad hostess, wife of the proprietor.
It was the night for the park-bench drop, and the Lisson Grove lamppost had told him to expect a delivery there. He picked up an evening paper, and sat down to read for a good ten minutes before slipping his hand underneath to pull forth the waiting envelope. The reading time had given him ample opportunity to scan the area around him. Anyone could loiter unobtrusively for a minute or t
wo; it was nearly impossible to stand around for ten minutes without being noticed. As far as Philby could see, there were no observers.
Another ten minutes of reading, and then he folded the paper neatly, envelope tucked invisibly inside, placed the paper underneath his arm, and sauntered back to his flat. At his desk, he opened the envelope and took out a sheaf of documents. It was the personnel information he’d been waiting for.
Fascinating. There were nearly thirty-five scientists on the list. While there were experts in gaseous diffusion, inorganic chemistry, and metallurgy, the most common specialty was nuclear physics. Even more fascinating, all thirty-five had vanished from Great Britain for unspecified destinations in America. No forwarding addresses in the States; any mail was to be forwarded through the Division of Tube Alloys.
Now, why would the States need thirty-five British scientists, mostly nuclear physicists? As to that, Kim Philby was fairly sure he had the answer without the need for further research. He was a man of many interests, widely read and happily curious. Not for him the artificial distinction between men of science and men of arts and letters. No, to be a man of the twentieth century required appreciation of both worlds, and to be a communist required an understanding of the new tools and technologies with which the proletariat revolution would be built.
One of those tools would be the atom. As swords could be pounded into sickles, the atom had potential both for peace and for war. Tube Alloys, then, was the British portion of what must be a joint Anglo-American quest for the ultimate weapon: the atomic bomb.
Yes, this was the answer to Chairman Stalin’s question. This was the ace up FDR’s sleeve. This was how the Western Allies expected to keep Berlin. Of course, Philby could expect a host of follow-on questions, but frankly, he could predict a number of them himself. He would write his report, then go to work on answering the questions he knew perfectly well he would be asked.
Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) Page 58
