Ilya and Misha funnel with the rest of the battalion into one of the lanes left by the artillery. The ground to their left has been plowed and gouged, smoke billows up as though from hell. Tanks growl at their heels, urging them to hurry. Small arms fire erupts ahead; the lead troops have already found the enemy.
Ilya diverts off the smooth path, Misha in his steps. Two dozen or more others follow, to flank the German trenches ahead. Nothing but black water and earth is in the bottom of the craters they sidestep, but on the edges and mounds lie hundreds of shredded humans and bits of them. Some of the enemy crawl and moan, but none reach for their guns, so Ilya keeps running among them. The sounds of fighting mount ahead. Ilya leads the impromptu squad, circling to his right. He glimpses on several shoulders the black-and-orange patch of the First Guards Tank Army, won for them by Misha.
A bullet rips into one of the soldiers behind Ilya. The man goes down hard on his back, his heels flail in the dirt. Several men drop at the fire, another tends to the wounded man. Ilya is not these men’s officer. He cannot issue orders. He presses ahead, they will follow or not. Misha is solid behind him.
“Spread out, Mishushka. In this fog we’re easier to see if we lump up.”
Ilya strides ahead warily. The mist and battle haze halt his vision at no more than ten meters. He can tell from clashing sounds that just fifty meters ahead there is combat. He reaches to his belt to unsheathe a knife. He clenches it in his teeth. It is frigid, he lays his tongue with care beneath the blade, for he has whetted the steel to a keen edge. He growls around the dagger.
Ilya breaks into a zigzagging jog. His PPSh is leveled, searching. A shape darker than the fog moves against the ground. Ilya hardens his grip on the machine gun to keep it from rearing, and yanks the trigger. He runs at the figure, pouring bullets at it from the hip. The fog closes where the German was. Then another pops up, and another, three more. Ilya keeps running forward, the weapon in his hands roaring, growing hot. Two of the men twist under Ilya’s spray, the third ducks. Ilya is too close now to hit the ground and wait. The German will lob a grenade in another second. He hears nothing around him but the unh-unh-unh of his breathing, and his boots bring him to the brow of the trench the moment the German’s arm flings a potato masher grenade. The thing strikes Ilya in the chest and bounces back into the trench. Ilya looks down into the man’s flabbergasted face. Ilya takes two large steps back. The grenade interrupts the German’s howl.
Ilya drops into the trench, hunkering low. Three mangled bodies lie at his feet but he wastes no time and pushes forward. He drools from the knife in his teeth, he cannot close his mouth over it, but he imagines a vision of himself with the blade there, weapons barbing every inch of him stepping with purpose along the enemy trench, through smoke, saliva on his chin; it is fierce and he likes it. The skin prickles are gone now.
~ * ~
* * *
January 18, 1945, 2:00 p.m.
The House of Commons
London
churchill tattoos his cane on the ground to give a meter to his thoughts. He doesn’t like it when ideas duck him. The man sitting across the wide, decorative hall, Anthony Eden, his Foreign Secretary, watches in a composed fashion, with legs crossed at the ankles. Handsome devil, Churchill thinks. Lucky. Tall, lean, full moustache. Young. I was young once. But never the rest.
“What do the Americans call it, Anthony?” the Prime Minister asks, shifting in his chair to put both heels on the floor. “In these situations.”
Eden cocks his head. “I don’t follow.”
“Eating something. They call it eating something. It eludes me at the moment.”
“Yes. Yes, I’ve heard that. What is it?”
“I can’t recall, Anthony That’s why I’m asking you.”
“I see.” Eden mirrors Churchill’s erect posture in his seat.
The men glance together into the lofty and dark ceiling of the waiting chamber to the House. Churchill taps his cane more on the linoleum between his shiny black boots. Eden drums his fingers.
Eden speaks first. “Is it ‘crow,’ Winston? I believe it is.”
Churchill considers this response. “Eating crow. Yes. I believe you’ve got it. That’s it. Sounds unsavory. Thank you.”
The Prime Minister stops the light pounding of his cane. He layers both hands atop the gold knob and leans forward to prop his chin there, like a head on a pike. He is hungry and aggravated, the corner of his mouth wants a cigar to chomp. In the vast Parliament hall he can hear the MPs and his Cabinet members filing to their places on the benches.
Without lifting his head from his hands, he asks Eden, “Why crow?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Crow. It’s a raven. Why is eating it an act of humility? Feathers, do you think? Like being a chicken?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Winston.” Eden shrugs, head held high, legs crossed again, fingers knitted in his lap, like a poster for suits. “The Americans.”
Churchill grinds his ample chin into the backs of his hands. “Yes, the Americans.”
He feels sweaty. Not nerves, he thinks; a fever, a cold coming. Some cool champagne after this session, a hot bath, and to bed. That’ll do the trick. Can’t get sick. Must KBO. Keep Buggering On.
He says, “Not as good as our humble pie, is it.”
Eden screws up his face. Churchill won’t get off it.
The Prime Minister continues. “Humble pie. That says it, right? Not crow at all, Anthony. Plain and simple, English humble pie. That’s what I’m eating.”
“Yes, Winston.”
“Hmpf,” huffs Churchill, slumping his shoulders even rounder, down toward the cane and the floor tiles, like a body that has indeed lost its head.
“The Americans. Crow. Nonsense.”
In the House a gavel sounds. Churchill sits up. He adjusts the thick leather folder in his lap. He doesn’t need these papers. He totes everything in his head, heart, and in his gut. In another few minutes he’ll move it all to where it does England the most good, to his mouth.
Churchill sees in his mind’s eye the magnificent House of Commons. Parliament, the Zeus of history. So much grandeur; nation upon nation around the world for centuries have awaited word from this august body like children seeking permission from pater. Britannia. Empire.
Humble pie.
“We’re broke, Anthony.”
“Yes, I suppose we are. Damn.”
“We’ve bled ourselves white in this war. We’re in hock up to our ears to the Americans. And do you know what the irony is?”
“It is we who have won the war.”
“Yes!” Churchill stamps down with his cane and a boot. “It was England rose first against the Germans. For two years. Two years, alone in Europe, alone in Africa. But, ho! The Battle of Britain, Anthony. The Battle of Britain.”
“ ‘Our finest hour.’” Eden quotes Churchill.
The Prime Minister nods while the projector in his head replays scenes of cat scratch smoke trails above London, bursts of airplanes and lives, crashes and prayers, history dictated by British pluck.
He raises a fist to Eden. Whenever Churchill speaks of his fighting Tommies, he inflates with pride. “We did lay a nice welt under the Hun’s eye, didn’t we?”
Eden smiles. “Yes, we bloody well did, Prime Minister.”
“We damn well held them off.”
This statement by Churchill, intended to be an accolade for Britain, tolls some unseen bell, and the mood of the two men lifts. The bell rings of truth. Both men, all of England, know it.
We did hold the Germans off, until the Americans and Russians could rearm. Until those two giant powers could step in and save England.
Churchill grunts at the notion. America and Russia. Franklin and Uncle Joe.
Save England.
Britain is in decline, he thinks, yes. But we have spent ourselves in the name of freedom. And rather than give us a hand up to reward England for her courage and sacrifice, Franklin Roo
sevelt wants us to crawl beside America into bed with the Bolsheviks.
No. Britain will kiss Stalin on two cheeks, but never on all four.
“Anthony.”
“Yes, Winston.”
“I can suffer any humiliation, you know. Carry any burden.”
“As can we all.”
“But I cannot stand by and let England fade. We have been too great.”
Ah, Churchill sighs. Perhaps too great, for too long?
Roosevelt will not meet him in Malta before the conference in Yalta. Afraid of offending Uncle Joe, though there is much to talk about with the end of the war nearing. Only as a concession, Roosevelt agreed last week to let his Secretary of State Stettinius attend the conference at Malta, for one day. One paltry day. Churchill will have to settle for half a loaf. Politics will wait for Yalta, but meanwhile they’ll hold a military session with the Combined Chiefs of Staff.
Churchill says, “Stalin I understand. He’s a rotter. Fair enough. But what do we do with Roosevelt?”
Eden shrugs. “We endure. England always endures. Stiff upper lip, cheerio, all that. You’re a historian. Who knows better?”
Churchill considers England’s endurance. Wars, pestilence, conquerors, perfidy, but never such indignities as have been meted out in this war. Never.
“No lover,” he says, “ever studied every whim of his mistress as I have those of President Roosevelt.”
“Feeling jilted, Prime Minister?”
Churchill ignores the titter from Eden. “Why,” he asks, “is Roosevelt so dead set against an English empire? It’s our tradition. We maintain colonies around the world instead of trade pacts in Europe. We like our independence here on our little island nation. How many wars have we fought to safeguard it? Why is he so convinced that his vision of a world order is better than ours?”
Eden replies, “When you consider that the United States, a former British colony herself, hasn’t done so badly.”
“Exactly! And tell me, Anthony, what if after all their adventurism in Europe and their lofty goals for Euro-Russian cooperation, the Yanks pull another disappearing act? What if their renowned isolationism rears its head after this war and we’re left alone again, this time with a charred continent and a hungry Russian bear licking its chops? What if America’s efforts to civilize the Soviets fail? Uncle Sam might well slip out of Europe like he did after World War I. And who’s left behind? You and me and Uncle Joe.”
“No worries. The United Nations will see that everything goes smooth as a baby’s bum.”
Churchill harrumphs. “Yes. Well, if the Russians can’t be convinced to treat the Poles with any more decency than I’ve seen, I daresay we can’t attach too much value to Roosevelt’s fancy.”
Churchill feels too tired to continue in this vein. Like Adam charged with naming the Garden’s animals, he surveys a horizon of slights both to England and himself, large and small, public and private, too many to line up for labels. Stop, he bids. America is in fact England’s greatest friend. And the truth. They and Russia did save you. What they do now they do only to become stronger themselves. England knows about this sort of smiling treachery, surely.
One last creature, an ebony bird, hops up to Churchill and begs for a name. Churchill smiles to himself at his wit, and names it “crow.” Come here, he thinks, you bastard.
“What,” Churchill asks Eden, “are we to do with Montgomery?”
The Field Marshal is England’s only hope for any final glory in this war. His Twenty-first Army Group is best positioned of all the Anglo-American forces to take Berlin. We might still fly the Union Jack from the Brandenburg Gate, if Monty will just keep his cool. And the West must take Berlin, if we’re to have any bargaining power over Stalin at war’s end. Red forces will be standing on the throats of all of eastern Europe, and with Stalin’s voracious appetite for territory, plus his short memory regarding signed agreements, they’ll stay there unless we have something Stalin wants.
Eden shakes his head. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before Eisenhower names Monty Ground Commander.”
“Ground Commander! Ha! Eisenhower wanted to fire him, for God’s sake! It’s not bad enough that we’ve got less than one tenth of the men in combat in Europe. It’s not sufficiently embarrassing that Stalin chides Roosevelt about me like a schoolboy nipping a mate for an ugly date at a party. Or that the sun is setting on the British Empire, on my watch! Our own Field Marshal Montgomery almost got himself sacked by Eisenhower!”
“The man can’t keep his ego in check.”
“Hmm. He should spend a day in my bloody shoes for a lesson in that.”
“He disguises his contempt for the American generals so badly.”
One more tap of the cane. Relations between the English and American armed forces have never been this low, all over this silly episode of hubris.
“Putting it mildly, Anthony?”
Eden chuckles. “A bit.”
Churchill surveys the problem. Montgomery thinks the Americans lack organization. The American way doesn’t rest well with the Field Marshal. From his standpoint, the U.S. Army relies too much on subordinates, expecting lower-level commanders to make decisions on the run, to take the initiative even in the absence of orders. This is a large part of the American psyche, go, go, go. But we British are more reserved, cautious. The long-held practice of our military is to rely on a battle plan, conservation of resources, superiority in numbers. It may seem stodgy to some, but England has carved an empire armed with this mind-set. Even so, we did take a drubbing in the American Colonial War, striding to fifes and drums through the forest in echelons, wearing red coats, while the outgunned Yanks wore deerskin and ducked behind trees. We cannot change what we are. No matter our common language and heritage, we remain separate nations. Perhaps never more so than today
Thank goodness, Monty’s chief of staff saw a cable Eisenhower was about to send to Washington, saying it was either Monty or him, one had to push off. Montgomery was shocked, sending Ike a conciliatory message, eating his own portion of crow.
Eden lifts an empty palm.
“He’s bent his knee to Eisenhower. Why isn’t that enough? Why do you have to go this extra portion?”
“Because there can be nothing left to chance, Anthony. There is a world at stake. And the Americans, as they like to say, hold the cards.”
Besides, Monty’s retraction didn’t end the bickering in the British papers. Bradley’s subsequent press conference fanned the flames more than doused them. The calls to promote Montgomery have intensified. Something extraordinary needs to be done to heal this rift. Worse, it comes only weeks before the Big Three meeting in the Crimea, and days after the Reds have launched their assault across Poland toward Berlin.
What is almost farcical about this sad incident is that the Germans have a hand in it. Enemy propagandists edited an exaggerated version of Montgomery’s words and beamed the broadcast toward the American lines. It was this version that gave many Yanks their initial news of Monty’s press conference. It was this broadcast that Bradley first heard and exploded over.
It is time. Churchill pushes on his cane to stand. Eden follows.
Together they march into the House of Commons. The Prime Minister takes his seat at the well, Eden slips into the row behind him. The MPs in the great hall applaud and cheer Churchill’s entry. They will stay noisy, he knows; there is not the hushed reverence in Parliament that Churchill found in the U.S. Congress when he spoke there. Here, in merry England, the MPs will shout “Oyez” and “Nay” and even “Sit down!” when they are moved to do so. Churchill waits for a trough in the clamor, then takes three steps to the center and sets the leather folder on the old, worn lectern. He looks up and around at the mumbling faces arranged on risers.
Well, he thinks, if the Prime Minister must swallow a slice of humble pie, he’ll bloody well swill it down with some good, old-fashioned Westminster podium thumping.
Churchill fills his lungs. His arms hang
loose beside his big belly. He raises his head but only some of his chin lifts out of his collar. He knows he looks puffy and dilapidated, but what do they expect of him, he’s seventy years old.
Churchill feels the English air in his chest is ready. The scent in his nose is of human history No matter what they expect, he will, as always, give them more.
He is vibrant in his words, emphatic in tone. Make no mistake. Almost all the fighting in the Ardennes was done by the Americans. The number of U.S. soldiers engaged with the enemy, and the weight of U.S. casualties, dwarf the contribution and losses by English forces. The Americans suffered losses “equal to both sides of the battle of Gettysburg.”
The End of War - A Novel of the Race for Berlin - [World War II 02] Page 9
