Then the engine compartment burst into flames.
“DON’T SHOOT! AMERICAN JOURNALIST, AMERICAN JOURNALIST,” Pearson shrieked as he flung himself from the car. On his knees now with hands up, he repeated his plea.
Darkened profiles of men rushing toward the car became red-faced demons in the fire’s glow. They were shouting things at Pearson he didn’t understand:
They must be speaking Russian.
Kostka couldn’t help with the translation; he was inside the burning car, unconscious from the head blow. A Russian soldier prodded him with the muzzle of his submachine gun. Getting no response, the soldier dragged him from the car to safety.
The soldiers surrounding the kneeling Pearson were tiring of shouting unheeded commands, especially with a burning vehicle so close and threatening to explode at any second. Two strapping Russians lifted him by his armpits and carried him away into the darkness.
They didn’t have to go far. Pearson found himself and Kostka in a large but crude shelter—a lean-to, really, big enough for a squad outpost—with ramshackle walls of stacked crates on three sides and a canvas roof. An oil lantern sat on the ground, shrouded in a tattered cloth, providing just enough flickering light to make out faces. The open side of the shelter overlooked the road. He could see the fire had spread to consume the entire vehicle. A few seconds later, it exploded.
A female soldier—a medic, apparently—was wrapping a bandage around Kostka’s bleeding head. He regained consciousness just as she finished her work.
“Can you talk?” Pearson asked Kostka.
“Yes,” came the groggy reply.
“Then tell me what they’re laughing about.”
“They’re laughing because you’ve pissed yourself.”
“Never mind that,” Pearson said. “Ask them why the hell they shot at us.”
Kostka posed the question. A voice from the shadows replied, “Because anyone coming up that road must be an enemy.”
“But I’m an American journalist,” Pearson protested.
“That changes nothing.”
Pearson tried another tack: “Tell them I’m going to make them famous.”
The Russian stepped into the muted light. Big and brawny, he wore enough visible scars to undoubtedly mark him as a combat veteran.
“Tell me how you will make us famous, American journalist,” the Russian said.
“Ask him his name and where he’s from,” Pearson told Kostka.
The reply: his name was Starshina Pervitsky. He was from a village on the banks of the Volga, not far from Stalingrad.
“What’s a starshina?” Pearson asked his translator. “Some kind of officer?”
“No, a most senior sergeant.”
“Ask him if he fought at Stalingrad.”
The answer was yes. But he still wanted to know how the American journalist would make them famous.
“Tell him their heroic stories will be told in the American press.”
When he heard that, Starshina Pervitsky seemed decidedly unimpressed. But Pearson persisted, telling Kostka, “Ask him to describe what the fighting was like at Stalingrad.”
He expected a long-winded reply, but the Starshina was exceedingly brief. Kostka’s translation: “Imagine being certain of death but yet you kept fighting. That was Stalingrad.”
“Did you kill many German soldiers?”
“You can’t keep count when the numbers are so large.”
“Have you been home since the war ended?”
When Starshina Pervitsky heard the translation, he laughed. His reply: “We go home when Comrade Stalin permits it. Not before.”
“But why do you think you’re still here?”
“Because the victors of The Great Patriotic War have earned the right to be here.”
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll be forced to leave?”
Pervitsky’s dismissive reply: “Nothing can make us leave. Not after the way we fought, and for far longer than you Americans did.”
“But you realize that some Americans want to sweep you back to the borders of the Soviet Union, don’t you?”
“You are talking about the gangster Patton?”
“Yes, Patton,” Pearson replied. “But why do you call him a gangster?”
“Our general has used the term. Not because he considers him a criminal, I think, but because he is a little afraid of him.”
“Afraid? Why?”
“Because the Germans were afraid of him. A wise man learns from his enemies.”
“Shouldn’t a wise man learn from his friends, too?”
“The Soviet Union has no friends. Only opportunistic adversaries.”
“Are you afraid of Patton, Starshina?”
“No. He cannot hurt me, because I am destined to live a very long life.”
Pearson was intrigued. “A long life? How do you know that?”
Pervitsky launched into the long-winded story of his war service. He described the abysmal job the Soviet Army did keeping track of its war dead. It wasn’t uncommon for the family of a casualty to never be advised of his fate. It wasn’t uncommon, either, for the family of a man who had survived a battle to be reported as dead. According to tradition, the family must immediately hold a service for their dear departed soldier. Russian folklore holds, however, that if a memorial service is mistakenly held for one who is still alive, that person will live a long life.
Pervitsky then added, “I have had at least three memorial services that I know of.”
“That’s fascinating,” Pearson said. “Would you take me to your general now?”
Pervitsky shook his head. “You do not want to do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’ll have you shot as a spy on the spot.”
“Won’t he shoot you if he finds out you’ve been talking to me?”
“No, he will not.”
“Because you’re going to live a long life?”
Smiling, Pervitsky nodded.
“Let me ask you this,” Pearson said. “Have you met many American soldiers?”
“Of course.”
“What do you think of them?”
“Most of them are not the men who pushed the Germans back into our clutches. They are the little children sent as replacements after those who did the fighting ran home to their mothers. But I did meet one who didn’t run home. He is a true warrior, I think…like a Russian, but in the wrong army.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“In Pisek.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Yes, his name is Moon. Master Sergeant Moon.”
Holy crap, Pearson thought. He remembered Sergeant Moon, too. He was that most formidable roadblock who prevented him from interviewing the GIs in Pisek.
Then Pervitsky said, “You must leave now.”
“How can we leave? You blew up our car. Will you give us a ride back to the American lines, at least?”
“No, we do not run a taxi service. Start walking.”
“But it’s over ten miles back to Pisek! And my translator is wounded.”
Pervitsky shrugged. The meaning was clear: not my problem.
“Oh, I get it,” Pearson said. “You don’t want us to see how you’re set up here once the sun comes up. Like we’ll run and tell the Americans. Is that it?”
“You are not as dumb as you look, American journalist. Now start walking.”
Sean Moon hadn’t felt like crying in a long time. He wasn’t even sure he knew how anymore, not after the countless heartbreaks, tragedies, and sheer frustrations of those years at war. But the news the men of 37th Tank had just received made tears a distinct possibility: Colonel Creighton Abrams—their beloved Colonel Abe—was being sent home.
Abrams cursed the orders, too. “I thought we’d put this off a while,” he told his cadre, “but Ike’s overridden Patton, and I’ve been ordered back to the Army General Staff in Washington, effective immediately. Believe me, I’d much rather be here with
you guys. Especially now, when it looks like the shit might be getting pretty close to hitting the fan.”
The men braced themselves for the announcement of who his replacement would be.
Abrams delivered the news: “My successor will be Colonel Bob Hardy. Maybe some of you old-timers remember him from Fourth Armored Division staff.”
Yeah, I remember him real well, Sean thought. He was the guy in the G3 shop who was never on the scene when the shit was flying. Usually only showed up once it was all over to strut around and soak up some of the credit for how well the operation went. Always a day late and a dollar short, so it ain’t no surprise we nicknamed him Colonel Tardy.
Captain Carpenter whispered to Sean, “Has Hardy ever even had a combat command?”
“Negative, Captain. As far as I know, he’s just a desk-polisher.”
“Ah, shit. Why now?”
Abrams continued, “Colonel Hardy will arrive first thing tomorrow. I’ll turn the battalion colors over to him at that time. By tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be catching a flight home out of Frankfurt. I hate to have to leave you guys…I really do.”
The colonel’s voice broke as he said it. Maybe he felt like crying, as well.
“We’re going to miss you, too, sir,” Sean replied. “We’d like to show you just how much, if we may. Permission to open the bar tonight, Colonel?”
“Permission granted, Sergeant Moon. Just don’t get me so plastered I can’t be shoveled onto an airplane tomorrow.”
As the men went back to work in the CP, Sean felt a sharp pang of loss. He knew exactly what they’d be missing with Abrams gone:
A guy with a set of brass balls can turn any fight into a win.
Colonel Abe is that kind of guy.
George Patton decided to have a few drinks that night, too. Settling into the comfortable armchair at his Tegernsee headquarters, he mulled over the events of the last few days.
That fucking Ike buckled to Washington again. Did he really think the Army General Staff couldn’t live another month or two without one little ol’ lieutenant colonel, even one as talented as Abe Abrams? If that boy doesn’t step on too many dicks on his way up the ladder, he’ll be wearing four stars one of these days. Shit, they should’ve pinned the first one on him already.
Those imbeciles are taking him away from me just when I need him most…
And I really don’t have anybody worth a flip to replace him with, either, dammit.
At least I’ve figured out how to effectively use those Germans under my care. Ike may have forbidden me to arm them, but he didn’t say I couldn’t use them as labor battalions.
And they’re willing to do it, too.
Anything that pisses on the Russians is okay with them.
Tommy would have loved to spend the time with Sylvie that Colonel Pruitt had prescribed. But he couldn’t find her in Frankfurt.
And, as usual, nobody at OSS or USFET would tell him where she was.
His flight to Klatovy, Czechoslovakia, would be leaving at first light tomorrow. He’d just returned from supper when the clerk at the officers’ quarters handed him a message.
It contained only a phone number. He dialed it immediately.
A woman answered. When he introduced himself, she said, “Sylvie and I are breaking agency policy by giving you this message, so please, Captain, be discreet. She has gone to France.”
“France? Why?”
“I don’t know,” she replied.
“How long will she be gone?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“Oh, shit…she’s not on another spy mission, is she?”
“Goodbye, Captain Moon.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Secretary of State Byrnes looked like a man who’d just run a marathon. Exhausted after a morning in which he’d exerted persuasion, engaged in bargaining, and delivered outright threats, he’d gotten the heads of the major American and British news outlets to put a lid on the revelation that George Patton had equated Nazis with Republicans and Democrats. The American president had not found that comment amusing in the least and dispatched the secretary on the mission to make sure those words never saw the light of day.
Now that it was accomplished, Byrnes arrived at the White House to tell Truman the good news.
“Fine work, Jimmy,” Truman said, “but it’s a crying shame we had to do it in the first place. At least Eisenhower took the bull by the horns without having to be told and slapped a muzzle on that lunatic.”
Turning to General Marshall, the president asked, “Exactly when will Patton be relieved as commander of Third Army and military governor?”
“It’s a very difficult process, Mister President, and—”
“I didn’t ask you how hard it was, General. I asked when.”
“Yes, Mister President. The change of command is set to occur on fifteen September.”
“About a week and a half, then,” Truman said. “Can’t be a damn minute too soon.”
But Marshall had a question. “Mister President, if we’ve already censured the man and kept his regrettable comment out of the press, why is it necessary to remove him from command? This is a very precarious time to be switching horses, and—”
Truman interrupted him again. “It’s always a precarious time, General. But I cannot risk the prestige of this nation by allowing that delusional and dangerous man to represent it any longer. If we let him stay, he’ll just keep running his fool mouth, and those of us in this room will look like we’re as crazy as he is for keeping him on.”
Marshall, his face downcast, replied, “I understand, Mister President. But may I make a request?”
“Go ahead, General.”
“I ask that in light of George Patton’s years as a brilliant military commander, he retain his full four-star rank upon retiring from the Army.”
“That request is a little premature, isn’t it, General? I didn’t think we were kicking him out of the Army, just sticking him someplace where he can’t do any more damage.”
Marshall replied, “Still, sir, he’ll be sixty years old in a few months. It’s likely he’ll retire from the Army while you’re still in office. Since I don’t expect you’ll be interested in extending his years in uniform indefinitely, I’d like to see him go into that retirement without the indignity of a reduction in grade.”
Truman hadn’t given it much thought; the pressures of ending the war and fighting the peace had consumed his every moment. But his political instincts told him that busting Patton down a star or two in retirement—an element of military regulations all three and four-star general officers could face, even those who weren’t controversial—might hurt his presidency and his party in the public eye just as much as ignoring Patton’s outrageous statements would. He couldn’t overlook the fact that Patton was still perceived by most as a bona fide hero of the war just ended…
And you shit on heroes at your peril.
He told Marshall, “I’ll take your request under advisement, General. I will tell you, though, that I’m inclined to be in agreement with it. For now. But tell me: where are you going to stash Patton once he’s relieved?”
“We’re putting him in charge of the newly created Fifteenth Army, Mister President. It will—”
“Now just hold on a minute, General,” Truman said, his face reddening. “I thought you said he wouldn’t be in command of troops anymore.”
“Sir, the Fifteenth Army is a skeleton organization. It’s a headquarters staff with no subordinate units. It has only one mission: to write the history of US Army forces in Europe from 1942 to the cessation of hostilities in May 1945.”
Truman liked the sound of that. “So his job is to write a book, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s just peachy,” the president replied.
As far as Sean Moon was concerned, the only good thing that had happened in the last few days was his brother had shown up to assume ASO duties for 37th Tank. “I’d be lyin
g if I said I didn’t pull some strings to get you assigned to us,” he told Tommy. “But it was pretty easy to pull off, considering how we’ve got a new C.O. here who can’t find his ass with both hands and Patton getting the rug pulled out from under him and all. This whole place is on the balls of its ass at the moment.”
“Yeah, I heard all that,” Tommy said, “but what the hell did Patton do, anyway?”
“I don’t know, Half…probably told Ike to go fuck himself one time too many.”
Sean checked his wristwatch; it was coming up on 2100 hours. “I gotta go do a check on the outposts,” he said. “I gotta see how many assholes I can catch sleeping on duty. You wanna come along, Captain?” He’d dragged out the word captain with derisive delight.
Only pretending to be annoyed, Tommy replied, “Hey, at ease, Sergeant. Respect the rank, you know?”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, sir. Now are you coming or what?”
The Russian convoy leader cursed the darkness. He and his convoy should’ve arrived in Prague by sunset, but their 250-mile journey from Vienna through Soviet-occupied territory had encountered nothing but obstacles. Those obstacles included other convoys moving at a snail’s pace, unreliable maps, barely passable roads, and refueling stations that had little or no fuel to give.
Now it was nearly 2200 hours and the convoy leader—an artillery captain—was growing quite sure that he and his five-vehicle convoy were lost. They’d spent the hours since sunset blundering through the dark, their headlights switched off per standing tactical orders. The smooth, two-lane pavement on which they’d been traveling had devolved into a dirt road barely wider than one lane. The alphabet used on the signs they’d passed—with its Latin characters and abundance of accent marks—reassured the captain that at least they were in Czechoslovakia. But the names those strange letters spelled out corresponded to nothing he saw on his maps. To make matters worse, the night sky was overcast, obscuring the moon and stars he could’ve used to determine direction. They had to stop so he could get away from the metallic mass of the trucks and use his hand-held compass.
This Fog of Peace (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 4) Page 25
