Despite the warmth lapping at him, Churchill feels a chill at the magnitude of Eisenhower’s misstep. The General is wrong. Berlin remains of the utmost military and political importance to the West.
Another telegram on the table—this one from Eisenhower to Montgomery—is the last straw. It strips the Ninth U.S. Army from Monty’s control. Ike is returning General Simpson’s powerful force to Bradley in the center, the new site of Ike’s main effort. Whatever happened to the agreement at Malta, when that main effort was clearly stated as Berlin?
How perfect, thinks Churchill. Everything falls in place for Eisenhower. Keep the glory for the Yanks. Exploit the breakthrough at Remagen in the center, give fair-haired-boy Bradley the priority. Claim to be cutting the Nazis off from a retreat to the mountains. Stick it to Montgomery. And the whole time, Ike’s telling the world he’s making purely military decisions. Poppycock! The political mollycoddling and personal one-upmanship behind this decision to abandon Berlin are so thick they foam.
With SCAF 252 Eisenhower has preempted every possibility, cut off any decision but his own. Monty’s been hamstrung to the point where he can’t take Berlin even if it becomes available. He’s stuck in the north, “mopping up.”
Churchill lifts a hand out of the water. He makes a small, useless splash against the tub wall.
The Grand Alliance—so hopeful and interwoven in the beginning, so laden with possibilities—is in bitter decline.
~ * ~
* * *
March 30, 1945, 5:40 p.m.
Stalin’s office,
the Kremlin
Moscow
before the meeting stalin has his desk cleared of all documents and maps. This is not to protect state secrets; his purpose is to impress upon the coming American and British officials that he has no need of papers, he remembers everything. Stalin rules not with edicts but with a word.
He waits with his pipe lit, pacing through haze along the bank of high windows. The shades are pulled, always. Stalin is not one to gaze onto dusky courtyards for inspiration or rest. In his life he has done his work in prison cells and fugitive caves. Darkness and close quarters have kept him alive more than a few times.
When his aide knocks, Stalin moves to the chair behind his desk. He leans back.
“Yes.”
The door opens, the pipsqueak secretary announces the delegation.
“Show them in.”
Stalin changes his mind. He will stand when the visitors enter.
The first through the door is Major General John Deane, Chief of the U.S. Military Mission in Moscow. At Deane’s elbow is his British counterpart Admiral Ernest Archer. Behind them are the two ambassadors of Stalin’s allies, Averell Harriman and Sir Archibald Clark-Kerr. The ambassadors are in the rear, Stalin notes.
“Gentlemen.” Stalin says this in English and rises while they cross to him. There is no carpet in his office, little comfort, the chairs he offers the Western dignitaries are like his own, plain and hard-backed. The true Soviet citizen is a Spartan.
All the men take their seats. Stalin’s interpreter enters and moves behind Stalin with little noise, padding like a geisha, bent and humble. Harriman speaks passable Russian, but Stalin wants to know after the meeting what these men say among themselves in English.
Stalin begins.
“You have a telegram from General Eisenhower for me.”
General Deane holds across his lap a red leather pouch. He does not react to Stalin’s invocation, doesn’t scramble to open the pouch and hand the cable over. He seems to want something.
Stalin sets his pipe aside. “I’m told it was warm today. Is that so?”
Deane makes a sound, a little burst through his nose. This is a tiny laugh.
“Quite nice, Marshal.”
“Spring is coming. May I offer you gentlemen something to drink?”
“No, thank you, Marshal Stalin.” Ambassador Harriman speaks. “We won’t take too much of your time. Yes, we do have a personal message from General Eisenhower for you. General Deane?”
Deane unbuckles the pouch. A single typed sheet is passed over. The cable is labeled Supreme Commander Allied Forces number 252. Stalin takes it and hands it behind him without looking to the interpreter. The spectacled little man reads aloud. Stalin resumes smoking.
Eisenhower’s immediate operation is to encircle the Ruhr and destroy all enemy forces defending it. This mission lies principally in General Bradley’s theater of operations. The offensive should be completed by late April if not sooner.
The Allies’ next effort will be to divide enemy forces by linking with the Soviet armies.
The best junction to effect this linkup is an advance east to Erfurt-Leipzig-Dresden, this being the area into which many German government departments have been reported moving.
As soon as practicable, a second, supporting advance will go into action to join Soviet forces in the south, toward Austria, to prevent the consolidation of German resistance in the anticipated redoubt in southern Germany.
Eisenhower requests immediate information about Soviet plans as to direction and timing, in order that Allied operations be planned in accordance. The Supreme Commander regards it as essential that the two forces coordinate their actions and perfect the liaison between them.
While the interpreter reads, Stalin smooths his moustache. He looks over the heads of the Americans and the Englishmen where the smoke from his pipe hovers in gray twisting shapes.
So, the soyuzniki—the little allies—are worried about the Southern Redoubt. Stalin can’t fathom this. His information tells him not to worry, it’s only clerks and bureaucrats fleeing, not a one of whom would know which end of a rifle to point. Why does Eisenhower say he is making major military decisions based on such a thin rumor?
Eisenhower claims he’s heading for Leipzig-Dresden. Bradley in the middle is the point of the Allies’ lance now. And what of Montgomery’s huge army on the north German plain? Will that juggernaut go unused for the very specific purpose for which it was built and positioned? Stalin imagines the mewling of Winston Churchill over this. He smiles to himself at an image of the angry English bulldog gnawing on one of Eisenhower’s trouser legs. No, this seems unlikely: the letter claims Montgomery has been remaindered to clear the northern seaports and mop up while Bradley takes the fore into the German heartland. Bradley the conquering hero, not Montgomery? No, Churchill wouldn’t stand for it.
The interpreter finishes. Stalin reaches back for the page. He weighs the sheet in his hands. He has not made eye contact with any of the men in the room since they entered.
Odd. The letter comes direct and personal from Eisenhower, not through the proper channels of the American and British Joint Staffs. Is this what Roosevelt was referring to in Yalta when he asked that Eisenhower be permitted to communicate directly with the Soviet General Staff? After all, Stalin is the chief of the Red military. Was Roosevelt setting this move up so far in advance?
Odder still, in effect the letter says: We give you Berlin.
Stalin cups his pipe in one fist. He brings his hands together under his chin and closes his eyes. He rubs together the tips of his thumbs.
He calculates.
The Americans and British are three hundred kilometers west of Berlin. The Red Army is only eighty to the east. But the Allies have no real resistance facing them. The toughest German divisions are all on the Eastern Front. Montgomery’s forces have made spectacular progress beyond the Rhine. Bradley and Patton and Simpson move at the top speed of their tanks. Why would Eisenhower pull in the reins? Why would he call off the race for Berlin? It makes no sense.
Roosevelt. The President has to know the importance of Berlin. Churchill surely has told him if he doesn’t. Why would he give Berlin to Stalin when he can take it? That thing Roosevelt said at Yalta, the bet that the Red Army would be in Berlin before the Americans were in Manila, that was a joke, yes? Of course.
No, the man cannot be that naive. But is the Presid
ent too sick finally to stop some play by Eisenhower and his generals? Is Eisenhower a coward, afraid to spill a little more blood to secure the biggest prize of the war? Perhaps the rift in the West has grown so deep that Churchill and Montgomery no longer have a voice? Or is Eisenhower simply exercising a vendetta, pulling the rug out from under Montgomery in the final moments of the war and handing the torch to his fellow American, Bradley?
Someone in the room clears his throat. Perhaps this is a request that Stalin open his eyes and speak. He ignores the interruption.
Stalin asks of the seer in his head, the one true voice that has always warned him of danger and enemies. What of this letter from Eisenhower? Can it be trusted? Can any of the apparent reasons behind it be true?
No. Don’t be absurd.
Eisenhower is no coward. Churchill is no defanged lion. Montgomery is not to be shoved aside so easily.
Berlin is too clearly of political importance for Roosevelt to drop it into Stalin’s lap. Stalin’s intentions have been barely masked throughout eastern Europe, there are no secrets. Roosevelt may be ill but he would have to be dead not to see this. He knows what will happen if Stalin takes Berlin. The little allies will have nothing, nothing at all to bargain with.
“Marshal Stalin?”
Stalin lifts his head and opens his eyes. He has the sensation of surfacing. The audience waits on him.
“Yes, General Deane?”
“What do you think?”
“I think”—Stalin will play along—”the letter meets with my approval. I agree with General Eisenhower that the Nazis’ last stand will probably be in the south, in Bavaria or western Czechoslovakia. Very good idea to cut them off as soon as possible.”
Stalin notes how the Americans nod in concurrence with this lie. The two Britishers have said almost nothing, they barely move; damn the English. Are they being typically remote or are they the harder to fool?
Stalin asks Deane, “Tell me, where will be the starting point for this supporting offensive into Austria? Will you be using your Italian forces now that the Nazis are all surrendering there?”
This is meant as a gig but none of the Westerners twitches.
“No, Marshal. The assault will come from the forces we currently have east of the Rhine.”
Stalin thinks, good, leave the Allied army bottled in Italy where it is. Stalin doesn’t want the Western powers poking around south of the Balkans.
Harriman asks, “How about your troops on the Oder? Can you tell us anything about the delays you’re facing there?”
“Yes, of course. Things are improving remarkably. The spring floods are receding and the roads are drying out. I think we’ll be ready to go soon, but I’ll have to consult with my staff on that.”
“When can General Eisenhower expect a reply?”
“Very soon. Within twenty-four hours. Now, gentlemen.”
Stalin rises to dismiss them. The men all take the cue, and with handshakes the room is emptied. Stalin dismisses the interpreter; the visitors said little among themselves. The meeting was brief. Stalin returns to his desk. He lays the Eisenhower cable 252 in front of him. He stares at the English phrases on the white paper, interrogating them, they are alone with Stalin now.
He tamps and relights his Dunhill pipe. He runs the pipe stem lightly over his lips, pondering the cable. A puff of smoke strikes the sheet in the face and spreads out in blue rolling waves. The clock tower in the Kremlin gate strikes six tolls for the hour.
When the public clock is done, Stalin pushes the paper away. He nods to it. It did not make sense before; now it does.
He picks up the phone and instructs his secretary to locate both Marshals Zhukov and Koniev.
In a minute, Zhukov is on the line. Stalin instructs him to drop what he is doing and fly to Moscow tonight for a conference tomorrow. Zhukov is over a thousand miles away on the Oder Front. No matter. Tomorrow. Immediately after, Koniev is reached and receives the same order.
Stalin hangs up the phone and stands from his desk. He turns his back on Eisenhower’s letter, as though the page is a comrade who has told the truth under pressure. Stalin knows everything now. He knows what to do.
He glances up at the jutting chin of Lenin’s portrait. Always when addressing Lenin, Stalin holds himself still, as though standing before the real man, the titan. Tonight Stalin waves a dismissive hand and walks past.
He thinks, You were the leader to begin the Revolution, Vladimir Ilyich. You will always be honored for that.
But Stalin is the man to continue it. This is why, because of treachery. You were too trusting, too good. Look at this letter.
“A trick,” Stalin says into the room so Lenin can hear and follow events.
“The soyuzniki pull a trick on Stalin.”
Eisenhower is going to take Berlin.
* * * *
APRIL
* * *
O
nly the dead have seen the end of war.
Plato
* * * *
EIGHT
* * *
April 1, 1945, 0930 hours
With the Eighty-third Infantry Division, Ninth Army
Holzminden, Germany
T
he fat burgomaster’s eyelids flutter. he brings up two thick hands while he takes a step backward. He’s an ostentatious man; he’s dressed himself in a dark suit with bow tie and a velvet and silk sash across his chest. Bandy thinks of the Tennessee State Fair and the livestock judges.
On the wall behind the man’s desk Bandy sees a place where the paint looks warmer, fresher. A picture has been taken down. Hitler, no doubt.
The burgomaster has a .45 Colt pistol pointed at his nose, behind which stands an American infantry captain.
The captain speaks in fluent German. The pistol has a universal voice.
The burgomaster backs until his desk rides up against his fanny. With no room to retreat, the man’s eyes go big as Bing cherries. The American captain smiles while he talks. Except for the gun and the raised hands and the glisten of scared sweat, everything is pleasant. The burgomaster seems very agreeable.
Bandy limps to a chair and sits. Twenty-two stitches went into closing the gash in his leg. Only yesterday did he take his left arm out of the sling. His left leg aches for having to take up the slack for his bandaged right, his right shoulder throbs from doing everything for his hurt left. He’s sore from head to toe. This makes Bandy happy. He’s been shot and busted up. He has achieved the sense with his gimp and bad wing that he belongs among the fighting men now more than he ever has. Charley Bandy has plunked his body down on the table, he’s anted up.
Though the language is German, Bandy knows what’s being said by both parties here in the burgomaster’s large office. This is the third town in the last two days where the Eighty-third Infantry has done this. Something like:
—You might want to pick up that phone, sir, and call ahead to the next town.
—Ja, ja, ja.
—Tell them to do just what your nice little town did. If the burgomaster there wants the place to still be standing when we leave, he needs to get everybody to hang out white sheets from their windows.
—Ja.
—If there’s any German soldiers around, or any of those crazy bastard kids, tell ‘em to get out of town or lay their guns down.
—Ja, ja.
—Tell him we mean business.
-Ja.
The captain lowers the gun. The burgomaster, who has by now bent himself backward over his desk, straightens up. He adjusts his sash and collar, clears his throat, some rituals of dignity before he acts in his official capacity as traitor. Bandy had to agree not to take any pictures of these scenes before the captain would let him watch. Too bad, he thinks, there’s precious little comedy in war.
The burgomaster dials and reaches his counterpart in the next town, Bevern. According to the Eighty-third’s maps, Bevern’s just a little village five miles to the east on the two-lane road.
&n
bsp; But it’s a German village.
None of the American soldiers wants to die or get wounded this close to the end of the war. To have made it this far through all they’ve endured and then be gunned down by some fanatical teenager waiting around a bend. Or blown up in your jeep by a kid hiding in a grove of trees who found an unused Panzerfaust. That would be too much, too wasteful, with the war decided. But Hitler has raised a whole generation of children to do just this, to be his “werewolves,” boys and girls who will bleed into a cup for the Führer. There’s not a single fifteen- or sixteen-year-old in Germany who’s ever known any leader but Adolf Hitler. They can’t imagine a world without him.
The End of War - A Novel of the Race for Berlin - [World War II 02] Page 33
