Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine)

by Douglas Niles

  So he had learned a whole new class of aircraft identification. He could spot the MiGs and the Yaks and the Laggs. And there seemed to be thousands of Ilyushins, the ubiquitous Sturmoviks that had been the scourge of the German army and the Luftwaffe for nearly four years. The older Ilyushins were slow, more like flying tanks than modern fighters. The newest Sturmovik, however, the IL-10, looked to have serious potential as an adversary to the Mustang. It was lighter and more maneuverable than any previous Soviet aircraft design, and even when the P-51s flew high-altitude cover—above twenty-five thousand feet—the Ilyushin 10s would be up there with them, Russian pilots glowering through the sky behind their oxygen masks.

  Today Robinson and the three fellow pilots of his flight were at a lower altitude, right off the starboard wing of the transport stream. The Mustangs flew much faster than the big C-47s, of course, so the young captain and his three wingmen flew steadily past the Dakotas, overtaking the individual planes of the long column.

  Overhead, to both sides, and underneath were Soviet fighters, often diving dangerously through the formation of transports, or coming up behind the American fighters in mock combat maneuvers. Robinson knew that there had in fact been a few accidents over the last months, a transport clipped by a diving MiG, and two or three instances of fighters colliding. There had been warning shots fired and tensions inflamed on each occasion, but quickly things had settled down again into the routine of the mainly bloodless siege.

  Still, the Russians seemed exceptionally frisky today. The radio had been alive with warnings and curses all along the sky train. The four Tuskegee airmen had flown from a base in eastern France, and while they had not been close to a Soviet fighter today, Robinson’s vigilance never relaxed, head always moving, eyes scanning.

  Even so, it was his wingman, Cecil “Ceece” Hooper, who first spotted them.

  “Red Star bogies, ’bout two ’clock low,” he drawled, the sound of Alabama in the German sky.

  Robinson saw the Russian fighters, a dozen or more of the IL-10s, flying parallel to the four Mustangs and climbing gradually. He checked the altimeter—it read 12,200 feet—and he reckoned the Soviets were two thousand feet below. They flew past a band of water, one of the wide lakes on the outskirts of Potsdam, and abruptly turned, still climbing, toward the sky train.

  “Watch the bogies up there.” One of the C-47 pilots put out the warning to his fellows.

  “Got ’em spotted—bastards are cutting it close!” replied another.

  Robinson clenched his teeth as he saw the Russian fighters wheel more tightly, spreading their formation as they arrowed through the line of Dakotas. They flew past the cockpits of two of the C-47s, one of which lurched crazily as the pilot flinched. The radio crackled loudly, indistinguishable shouts of outrage. The wobbly Dakota pulled back into line, but the captain could imagine the pilot’s hands, clenched around the wheel to control the trembling, to manage the pulse of adrenalin.

  On the far side of the sky train, the Russian planes banked around; it looked like they were going to come through again. Robinson looked over his shoulder. Ceece was watching him expectantly. The captain nodded, then used his throat mike to contact his two mates above and behind them.

  “Time to earn our pay, fellows.”

  Immediately the four Mustangs growled through a coordinated turn. In pairs they dove beneath the train of C-47s, each wingman sticking to his leader. Smoothly they pulled up and leveled off, strung in a line now and directly between the Ilyushins and the defenseless transports.

  The Russians roared in, spreading into pairs of their own. Four of the Sturmoviks converged on Frederick Douglass Robinson in the lead Mustang, but he held steady course. He turned to face them, a glare of challenge—I dare you!

  At the last minute the Reds broke, two veering before him, two more taking the low road. At the same time the radio sparked, a single word in Cecil Hooper’s surprised voice.

  “Hey—”

  Robinson felt the explosion even before he turned around to look. Two planes, an American and a Russian, tumbled wildly away from a smear of smoke and fire that lingered in the sky. Hooper was crashing, the plane engulfed in flames, no sign of a parachute. Fred Robinson cursed in disbelief, shock quickly replaced by fury.

  “You sons of bitches!” He yanked on the stick, pulled up and around in the face of two more IL-10s. Both Soviet pilots twisted out of his way, probably shocked in their own right by the collision. Robinson didn’t care; he pulled his nimble fighter around, and the nearest Russian maneuvered desperately to get out of the way.

  Only then did the pilots see the Dakota. The window of the cockpit was right there, the pilot looking outward, eyes wide, mouth open in a soundless scream as the Ilyushin collided with the middle of the fuselage. Robinson’s momentum pulled the Mustang down so he dove, trying to get underneath the crash.

  The C-47 exploded, a massive fireball sending shock waves through the sky. One large piece, an engine, tumbled downward, right into Frederick Douglass Robinson’s path. His last realization was that the falling engine still had a propeller attached.

  FORWARD OBSERVATION POST, SECOND GUARDS TANK ARMY, POTSDAM, GERMANY, 1114 HOURS GMT

  Colonel Krigoff had rushed outside when the first explosion had sounded. He watched, somewhere between thrilled and horrified, as squadrons of fighters roared into the smoking gap in the sky train. More planes fell, burning, and the American transports started to evade, many of them diving low.

  Krigoff pressed his binoculars to his eyes, trying without success to follow the aerial melee. There were fighters shooting at each other all over the sky, as the battle seemed to be spreading quickly up and down the long column of aircraft. He heard more explosions, saw trails of black smoke as plane after plane burst into fire and plunged toward the ground.

  After the first clash, he was bitterly disappointed to observe that the great majority of these doomed aircraft were Russian fighters. The Americans moved in with surprising speed, their nimble Mustangs driving the Soviets back. Still, the enemy was suffering too. Krigoff had counted at least ten of the transports destroyed, and the steady progress of the sky train was clearly broken.

  “Colonel! Look out!” It was one of the lookouts—the man had the audacity to tug on Krigoff’s arm.

  He dropped his binoculars to rebuke the man, but he was instantly distracted by the view of a huge, four-engine transport plane, racing low across the ground—directly toward Krigoff! He dropped to his face, felt the air shudder as the big plane roared past, and lay there trembling.

  “Get me front headquarters on the phone!” he snapped, realizing what must be done.

  Instead, he got General Benko, CO of the Second Guards Tank Army. “What is it, Colonel Krigoff?” asked the general cautiously. “Can you see anything out there?”

  “The Americans have started to attack!” Krigoff yelled. “Get Marshal Zhukov’s headquarters! We must carry the alarm!”

  “Are you sure? We tried to get a report, but all the phones are out. There is no word from front HQ.”

  “The phones are out?” This was the clincher, in Krigoff’s mind. “Don’t you see—it’s saboteurs! Probably the damned Germans, took out our communications. I tell you, General, we have to strike back—now!”

  Benko was no doubt mindful of his predecessor’s fate. Still, he was hesitant to initiate dramatic action. “I think we need to wait for developments—”

  “By then it will be too late!” shouted the colonel. “Our guns are sighted on the American positions—at least, give them a barrage!”

  “Are you sure they are attacking?”

  Krigoff wanted to tear his hair out. He looked around, counting at least a dozen pyres of black smoke rising into the air, just in this neighborhood of Potsdam. Even as he watched, a Sturmovik plummeted downward trailing a bright tail of fire. It splashed into the lake and vanished in a hiss of steam and spray.

  “Yes—they are attacking everywhere I look! I tell you, Genera
l, I will not be held responsible for your hesitancy if you fail to act!”

  Benko was silent for long moments. Finally, Krigoff heard him draw a breath, the sound rasping over the line. “Very well,” said the general. “I will order my batteries to open fire.”

  CCA HQ BLOCKHOUSE, POTSDAM, GERMANY, 1200 HOURS GMT

  “Everybody down!”

  Frank Ballard didn’t know who shouted the unnecessary command. All the officers and men in the blockhouse had ducked in unison as the sudden, shrieking wail of incoming Soviet shells screamed through the air. The explosions came from all around them, earthshaking impacts that rattled a radio off its shelf and brought a rain of plaster and debris falling from the old slaughterhouse’s ceiling.

  The next round of shells fell in the same pattern, and there was no mistaking the truth: CCA, and even the specific location of the HQ, were under direct attack. Ballard sprinted across the room as another rain of debris fell down. The signalman at the phone switchboard was under his table; sheepishly he crawled out when he saw his CO approaching.

  “Get me General Wakefield—and tell him he’ll want to patch through the Army HQ,” Ballard shouted, over the din of continuing explosions. How many guns were firing at him, personally? There had to be at least a hundred!

  “General?” he said, when the corporal handed him the receiver. “It looks like this is the real thing—the shit has hit the fan down here in Potsdam!”

  SHAEF, REIMS, FRANCE, 1739 HOURS GMT

  “General Marshall?” The Supreme Commander was on the telephone talking to his boss, their voices spanning an ocean.

  “Yes, I have Secretary Stimson here with me,” said the chief of staff of the U.S. Army. “What’s going on over there?”

  “Looks like the Russians have run out of patience. They’ve started an attack in the Potsdam area. We’re taking heavy shelling, but Patton’s men are holding their ground for now. There was an aerial battle too—they hit the sky train over Potsdam. We hit back, but not before we lost a dozen C-47s. By the end of the day, our fighters were getting control of the skies. We had a dozen escorts shot down—the flyboys claim they got a hundred Russkis, but you know how that goes.”

  “What about your line in Zhukov’s HQ? Have you called the old SOB?”

  “I’ve tried, General. But they’ve apparently cut off that connection—it seems to be a dead end. There’s no way to get through to him. Dammit, I sure have a bad taste about our boys getting plastered like this. But there’s no way to go toe to toe with them in an artillery duel. Can you authorize the release of the tactical air arm?”

  “We’re talking about that. You want to use air power to pound Zhukov’s guns?”

  “Yes.” Ike was definite. “It’s the only weapon we can put into play right now.”

  The Supreme Commander waited, hearing the soft buzz of conversation on the other end of the line.

  “We’ll get word to the president this morning. I think we can get you the air support, but we need to get his clearance. In the meantime, Patton will have to hold as best he can.”

  “Yes, sir, of course. But General?”

  “What is it, Ike?”

  “Listen, about that gadget you’ve been hinting about? If there’s any truth to those rumors, I think we need it over here, right now. Looks like we are going to have to come up with some clout in the situation—you know Zhukov has enough tanks and guns to crush Berlin, if he sets his mind to it. So let’s have that gadget sooner rather than later if it’s humanly possible.”

  “I can’t tell you for sure, but I can promise that I will express your thoughts to the president—I happen to agree with you, one hundred percent.”

  “Thanks, General. That’s all for now.”

  “Keep in touch, Ike,” said the chief of staff. A second later the connection was broken. Eisenhower lit another cigarette, stood up, and started to pace the circle around his office.

  It’s a wonder, he thought, that I haven’t worn a rut into the goddamn floor.

  US EMBASSY, MOSCOW, SOVIET UNION, 2234 HOURS GMT

  “So, the chairman is not available for a meeting?”

  Ambassador Harriman’s voice was stiff, as cold as the ice of a Moscow winter, thought Hartnell Stone as he listened to his boss’s side of the phone conversation with the Kremlin.

  “Then I will speak to Foreign Minister Molotov. I see. You will leave messages for both men and for their assistants. Yes. Thank you. Good-bye.” He hung up the telephone. “Well, Hartnell, my lad, looks like no one’s home right now.”

  “My god, don’t they understand what’s happening?”

  “Probably not. I don’t, not really. Do you?”

  “It’s a confusing mess.”

  “Oh. Then you do understand.” Harriman laughed. “No, I’m not surprised at this. A little disheartened, but not surprised. As nearly as I can figure it, it goes like this. The battle starts. It’s probably as a result of some dumb accident, but with a couple of hundred thousand trigger-happy maniacs on both sides, it doesn’t take much for shooting to break out. They were having five or six minor incidents a day over in Berlin and were managing to keep the lid on. This time it doesn’t work.”

  “Why not?”

  “God only knows. Maybe the snafu spreads up the line. Maybe somebody’s brother or cousin got killed and the relative is out for revenge. Maybe somebody sees a medal or a promotion to be had. Maybe it’s just a string of coincidences. Won’t be the first time. Or maybe it’s not a coincidence. Maybe somebody’s decided to take advantage of this one. But I still think it was an accidental start.”

  “Why?”

  “We wouldn’t have started it, not because we’re necessarily so goody-goody, but because we don’t have the strength to go on the offense. Not even Patton would think that. The Russians, on the other hand, do have the strength to start something, but my best guess is that they really don’t want World War Three with us. At least not yet. When Stalin says that Russia has paid a much bigger price than we have in this war, he’s right. Plus, if this were a deliberate, planned attack, it would look different. It would be more coordinated, probably on a wider front, backed by more troops, and probably with more noticeable preparation, not just a little local thing that spreads out.

  “Now, exploiting an accident is not quite the same thing as planning a deliberate attack. If push comes to shove, they can claim we started it, and in the confusion and the fog, who knows? They might even be right—an accident could as easily happen on our side as on theirs. At least if they have to back down, or decide it’s time to stop, they can use ‘it was just a misunderstanding’ as an excuse. So now we come back to the Kremlin. Stalin and Molotov get a call from me. Should they take the call or not? All right, Hartnell, explain it to me. What would you advise them if you were on the other team?”

  Stone took a deep breath. “Yes, sir. Okay. The situation is, it’s an accident, but they’re exploiting it. They don’t want World War Three, but they do want Berlin, and if they can get the upper hand and win a few more negotiating points, why not.” He looked at Harriman for confirmation, but the American ambassador folded his hands across his chest and had on his best poker face. Stone wouldn’t get a hint whether he was on or off the mark.

  “So until this settles down and the smoke clears, there isn’t anything he can gain by talking to us,” Stone said. “His forces are clearly superior, but they still have to finish the job of taking Berlin. Afterward, he’ll want to talk armistice and claim this whole thing was started by an American provocation, and he’ll have some cockamamie piece of evidence to throw on the table. And as you say, it might even be the truth, though the claim’s the same either way.”

  He thought for a minute, and then he nodded with understanding. “And then he’s going to throw your own words back in your face.” Harriman cocked an eyebrow at that. “Remember a few months ago, when you were telling him that the Teheran deal was off? He’s going to grab the Teheran territory that you said he could
n’t have, and a little bit more besides. Then he’s going to tell you that he would have happily settled for the Teheran deal, except you were the one that threw it out, forcing him to this sad action.”

  Harriman nodded. “I think you’ve got it. Unless, of course,” the ambassador added, “the president really is holding that ace up his sleeve he’s been talking about … .”

  2 JULY 1945

  REICHSTAG BUILDING, BERLIN, GERMANY, 0544 HOURS GMT

  Patton left strict orders that he be wakened immediately if there was any change in the situation, and went to bed after midnight, sleeping on a cot in an upstairs office of the huge building. No one disturbed him, but he still woke up before dawn. Taking only five minutes to shave and put on a clean shirt and slacks, he headed downstairs to the large conference room that had been turned into a command post for the Army of Berlin.

  “They’re still shelling the heck out of Nineteenth Armored, General,” reported the major who had been supervising the dispatches through the early morning hours. “But there’s been no movement, no firing, on any other sectors.”

  “Get me Henry Wakefield on the line. I need to know how his boys are holding up.”

  “Actually, sir, he’s on his way to the HQ. Should be here within the next half-hour. He did tell me that they haven’t given any ground, yet.”

  “Good.” Patton concealed his worry with a hearty nod, then turned to look at the large map hanging on the wall. That provided no answers—and he had the damned thing memorized by now, anyway—so he stalked aimlessly around the room, looking over the shoulders of the three switchboard operators, going over the teletype reports from SHAEF. He was considerably relieved to see Hank Wakefield come through the door. The general looked hearty, if worried, and ambled over to the table where a large urn of coffee was percolating.