Robert Conroy

by Red Inferno: 1945: A Novel

  “But sir,” said Leland, surprising himself by acknowledging the German’s higher rank. “The Russians do have heavier tanks than the T34. Could these be their heavies, the JS series?”

  Von Schumann pondered. “But we have seen no indication that any of their JS, or Josef Stalin, heavy tanks are in the area. It is highly unlikely that they would be utilized here. I also think your scouts would recognize those monsters.”

  Miller chewed his pipe. “The reserves sit tight and wait. I think von Schumann’s correct, and we’ll let our local defenses handle this. We won’t tip our hand unless we absolutely have to.”

  A FEW HUNDRED yards away, Jack Logan peered through the firing slit of the bunker. Russian artillery was trying to chew up the barbed wire strung about fifty yards in front of him, and where the ditches didn’t obstruct the route to the bunker. The cannonade didn’t seem to be having much effect on the interlaced strands of wire. In front of that barrier was a series of overlapping antitank ditches. The engineers who had planned Potsdam’s defenses said the Russian tanks couldn’t cross them or climb them as long as the ground was dry, so their tanks and their supporting infantry would have to maneuver around them. This would place both Russian armor and men in the barbed wire and mines.

  Beyond the ditches and wire was a clear field of fire that extended a quarter mile to a road that was obscured by bushes. The Russians, if they came at him, would come from there, which was why Captain Dimitri had put outposts just beyond it.

  “The captain reports tanks approaching the road,” yelled Crawford. Dennis Bailey, the new platoon sergeant, took the walkie-talkie from him and spoke quickly.

  “Captain says the lookouts are coming back and we should watch for them,” Bailey added. “But he said they see a lot of Red tanks—not the big ones, thank God—and a whole horde of infantry.”

  How many in a horde? Jack wondered. He thought that the lookouts could have stayed a little longer and given a more precise count, but quickly realized it really didn’t matter. They had not been ordered to commit suicide, which is what would have happened had they stayed. What was important was that a large number of Russians was headed his way. They would know the precise number soon enough.

  The rumble of guns firing behind them was followed by explosions beyond the field as American guns hit the advancing Russians, who were still hidden from their view. “About time,” someone yelled. The one-sidedness of the artillery fire had been galling. Several Russian tanks were hit and exploded.

  The Red artillery fired a few more salvos and slackened, then ceased. Tanks burst through the shrubs and were followed by a mob of Russians.

  “Open fire,” Logan yelled, and all the machine guns, BARs, and rifles in the bunker commenced to chatter. Other bunkers in the defensive line opened fire along with his. Logan put his rifle to his shoulder and emptied an eight-shot clip, replaced it, emptied and replaced that one. He could see the infantry falling and littering the field with twitching bodies. There was the muffled bang of mines going off, killing more Russians to add to the din, but the remaining tanks kept coming and the infantry was being replaced by a second wave. Logan saw that some of them were carrying ladders just like in the Middle Ages.

  The wave of humanity reached ditches and slowed, as did the tanks. Temporarily foiled, the tanks opened fire on the bunkers confronting them with cannon and machine guns while the soldiers with ladders lowered themselves into the ditches as others tried to find their way through the maze of wire. Logan fired again and again, and had the angry satisfaction of seeing more Russians fall.

  Another Russian tank burst into flames. It had taken a direct hit on its side from a protected tank destroyer. More American tanks fired and another Russian tank shuddered. Smoke commenced to pour from it. The Russian tanks lifted their fire from the bunkers and sought out the dug-in and well-hidden M10s and the Shermans that were now joining in the battle. The Red Army tanks tried to snake their way between the ditches, which again exposed their more vulnerable flanks to disabling fire from U.S. antitank guns, and a couple more were halted by damaged treads.

  Mortars, machine guns, and rifle fire continued to rake and slaughter the Red infantry while the mines killed still more. The Russians, unable to climb through the wire, continued to pour into the ditch, and Logan could see the tips of ladders appearing on the American side.

  The Russian soldiers scaled the ladders and, although numbers of them were shot and dropped back into the pit, the survivors ran the few yards toward the bunkers, wildly hip-firing submachine guns as they came. The sheer volume of rifle fire caused bullets to find their way through the slits, and Logan heard the sound of screams beside him. He wanted to look but there wasn’t time.

  A man’s face appeared in front of the slit. The Russian looked puzzled, almost curious. Logan fired and it disappeared in a spray of red and gray. Explosions told him that American artillery was landing directly in front of him. Someone, most likely Dimitri, had called down fire almost on their own position.

  The deafening concussions shook and caused him to drop to his knees. There were more screams inside the bunker but they seemed to him to be coming from another world.

  Then there was silence. At first they didn’t believe it. Jack recovered quickly and ordered the men back to the firing slits. Logan looked out and saw the world outside blanketed with the bodies of Russian soldiers. Some of them were still moving and, as his hearing improved, he could hear their moans. In the distance, he could see the remainder of the Russian infantry running back through the gaps in the shrubs. There were damn few tanks with them. He could see at least a dozen burning hulks from his bunker, and one had its turret ripped off as if it had been a toy.

  With the Russians no longer an immediate threat, Logan checked for casualties—he had one dead and one wounded in this bunker. A check of his platoon’s other two bunkers showed four wounded. They had won the fight but he had lost six men. One or two of the wounded might return in a couple of weeks, but the platoon had paid a price.

  Logan opened the bunker’s rear entrance and stepped cautiously outside and into the smoke-filled air. The other bunkers had informed him there were no Russians hiding on his roof, so he felt reasonably safe. He took a couple of men and checked the dead lying around him. He found the man he had shot in the face. The back of his skull had been blown out and his brains were all over the ground.

  Cautiously, they walked to the edge of the ditch and pointed their rifles down. Who knew what might be waiting there. The bottom of the ditch was covered with dead and badly wounded Russians.

  “Jesus,” said First Sergeant Krenski, “how many of them did we get?”

  There was the sound of vomiting nearby as one of his men was overcome by the scene. “I dunno,” Logan mumbled, stunned by the sight. “It looks like it could be hundreds of them right here alone.”

  Krenski squatted by the side of the ditch. He was exhausted, and Logan realized he was as well. “Lieutenant, you don’t think we’ll have to do this again, do you?”

  Logan shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, top, but I just wonder who has to clean up this mess.”

  • • •

  JOSEF STALIN was nervous and agitated, a situation that immediately transferred itself to Molotov and Beria. Despite their exalted status in the Soviet hierarchy, they lived their daily lives in terror.

  “France,” said Stalin. “France is foiling us. They must cease.”

  Molotov nodded. He was the foreign secretary, so the problem Stalin perceived with France would be his to resolve. He did not glance at Beria, who would be relieved that they had not been summoned on a matter of national security, his area. The situation with the unfaithful Korzov had been bad enough.

  Molotov knew that Stalin was frustrated by the slow progress against the Americans and British. It had been almost two weeks since the assault across the Elbe, and there was not much to show for it in the way of territorial gains.

  Yet, Molotov thought, why s
hould Stalin be surprised? The Allies were strong and would not fold immediately. They would have to be crushed. Zhukov had protested, although rather tamely it now seemed, that the Red armies needed time to reorganize, rest, and refit after capturing Berlin and destroying the remnants of the German armies facing them. They had not been given time to recover, and now they were paying the price for it.

  Worse, Molotov was aware of rumors that the Red Army had paid more heavily in men and material in the destruction of the Germans in Berlin than they had expected. Zhukov was already making plans for troops to be moved from the other, smaller fronts to reinforce his assaults. It was not the best of signs.

  Then too, Stalin had been outraged by the armistice between the Allies and Germany. He was not in a mood to distinguish between those Germans who had been Nazis and those who had disavowed them. He saw the agreement as a further betrayal by Truman and Churchill.

  Stalin stood and began to pace, an act that Molotov found even more frightening. It meant that his leader was close to losing control.

  “France is the weak link in the Allied front,” Stalin said. “France is living in the past with delusions of grandeur, and this buffoon de Gaulle is the worst of the lot. Yet France does hold a key that can open up Europe to Zhukov.”

  Stalin jabbed at the tobacco in his pipe with a dead match and looked at the two men. “Comrade Molotov, you will contact de Gaulle and very bluntly inform him that we require France to leave the war. While the French have only a few divisions available to fight us, American and British supplies are coming through the French ports. Zhukov is correct in that Antwerp must be taken, but we can further damage the Allied effort by driving France into a separate peace with us.”

  Molotov understood. “We can make contact rather quickly, in a day or two at worst, but, Comrade Stalin, I have a concern.”

  “And what is that?”

  “De Gaulle, comrade, is a most antagonistic and prickly sort of person. A truly obnoxious ultranationalist Frenchman. He is likely to see a slight or an insult in any attempt by us to disengage him from those countries that helped liberate his beloved France from the Nazis. He has already managed to be offended by the actions of the Americans and the British, who are supposed to be his allies.”

  Stalin lit his pipe and puffed on it. “Then remind him that his enemies, those Nazis who occupied and enslaved his country, are now, thanks to Churchill and Truman, his newest allies. Ask him how he likes that. I do not think he does very much, do you?”

  “No,” Molotov answered, and Beria nodded.

  Stalin chuckled. “And if that does not work, do not for a moment be subtle. Remind him that, with or without his help, the Soviet Union will win this war against the capitalists and the fascists. All he can do is prolong or shorten the inevitable. If he prolongs it, he will make himself and France our sworn enemy. If he closes the ports and shortens the war, he will have proven that he and France can be our friends. The choice will be his. If he does not close the ports, then he will, inevitably, have an angry Russian army crossing his border with what had been Germany. De Gaulle can rest assured that we will exact our revenge, our pound of flesh, for his intransigence. Tell him we will devastate Paris and its people as we did Berlin.” He chuckled at the thought.

  Molotov did not relish the thought of giving de Gaulle what amounted to an ultimatum. Ambassador Andrey Vyshinsky would be responsible for actually dealing with the tall and absurd-looking Frenchman. Despite his fear of failure, Molotov could almost smile at the thought of Comrade Andrey confronting that arrogant bastard Charles de Gaulle.

  Stalin was not finished. “Comrade Beria.”

  Beria almost jumped. “Yes, Comrade Stalin?”

  “For you we have a special assignment. Let us suppose that the French are either so stupid that they reject our offer, or, as is most likely, try to defer making a decision until the last possible moment. Should that occur, we cannot be inactive. We must make life miserable for the Allies as well as the government de Gaulle is trying to form. Don’t you agree?”

  Molotov noted a bead of sweat forming on Beria’s forehead as his head bobbed quick agreement. How, he wondered, could the second most feared man in the Soviet Union be so mortally afraid of the first? Simple, he answered himself: everyone in Russia lived each day in gut-wrenching fear of that one man with his stinking pipe.

  “Comrade Beria,” Stalin continued. “I want you to make every effort to stir up trouble in France. We have a sizable Communist Party there, and I am certain they would be happy to cause work stoppages, barricade streets, protest the war, and do anything else to show that de Gaulle’s hold on the French people is less than solid.”

  Beria smiled tightly. It would be a fairly easy task. He would call for the French Communist Party to rise in protest against the alliance with Germany and the war with Russia. He was confident they would respond. Perhaps, he thought quickly, he could develop a guerrilla war between the French people and the Allies as they arrogantly rode across France in their long lines of trucks and trains. Perhaps he could carry it over into Italy, where the Italian Communist Party had been fighting the Nazis.

  Beria glanced quickly at Molotov, whose face, as usual, showed nothing. Beria envied Molotov’s ability to apparently live without fear in a country dominated by Stalin.

  “Comrade Stalin,” he answered solemnly, “it will be done. The French people will rise in support of the people’s revolution.”

  SUSLOV CHECKED AGAIN to see that his tank was hidden from the prying eyes of the American planes. They were east of the city of Brunswick, and it was nearly dawn and not time to be caught on the road by American fighters and bombers. He did not know which he hated most, the stubby P-47 Thunderbolt or the newer, sharklike P-51 Mustang, or even the B-17 and B-24 bombers, which had been known to dump their lethal and immense loads on the unwary. The tank crews had familiarized themselves with silhouettes of the planes, but it really mattered little. Each plane could be devastating, particularly since the fighters had figured out that tanks were vulnerable to their rockets and ceased wasting machine-gun fire on them.

  Most disturbing to Suslov and the others was the fact that there seemed to be so damned many of the American planes in the air lately. They had been used as protection from Nazi planes by the Soviet air arm, and this was no longer the case; thus, the need to hide during the day and to travel only at night. A tank column in the open during the day would surely attract American planes like flowers draw bees.

  The political officers had tried to downplay Russian tankers’ concerns by saying that the Russian airplanes were pounding the hell out of American staging areas and supply depots, and, when that task was completed, they would return to sweep the skies of the remaining Yanks.

  Suslov and his crew had listened solemnly to these comments during the periodic lectures and exhortations, but even Latsis had agreed that they would have much preferred to see more of their planes overhead and fewer lectures when they made their attacks on the stubborn American defenses. No one said any of this to the political officers. Anything other than enthusiastic support for their drivel would result in being sent to a penal battalion, which was the same thing as a death sentence. Those troops led the way during suicide charges or were sent to clear minefields with their feet. Whatever doubts anyone had were kept to themselves.

  At least, Suslov thought as he rearranged a tree branch over the turret, they were getting some precious time to rest and refit. As a result of almost continuous combat, the battalion had been bled down to only seven operational tanks. Not all the others had been destroyed by the Americans. Several had been left behind because of mechanical problems. Fuel, while not overly plentiful, was not yet a concern and there was the promise of reinforcements. Word had it that at least a dozen fresh tanks and crews would be arriving within a day or so. In the meantime, it was an opportunity to catch a little rest and do some maintenance on the remaining tanks.

  Suslov almost didn’t hear Martynov, his gun
ner, come up behind him. “Pavel, if you were trying to scare me, you almost succeeded. Do you have any cigarettes?”

  Martynov handed him a Lucky Strike. They were starting to liberate American cigarettes from prisoners and bodies. Suslov would have preferred a Camel but took the Lucky. Anything was better then the paper-wrapped shit that passed for cigarettes in the Soviet Union.

  “Sergei, there is something I want you to see.”

  Suslov was about to make a witty remark when he saw the look on Martynov’s face. He was almost distraught. “What is it, Pavel?” he asked with genuine concern.

  Martynov shook his head as if it was difficult to speak. “Just come. Please.”

  Suslov walked with him across a field toward a farmhouse and barn. Beyond it he could see the tops of a row of trees. As he walked the field, he looked nervously skyward in case an American fighter appeared. He did not think it likely that anyone would waste ammunition on two people walking, but one could never be certain. They were not that far from the front, only a handful of miles, and they could hear the rumble of artillery in the west and the sound of bombings in other directions. It was not the time for a carefree hike.

  Martynov directed him to walk around the farm buildings to where he could see the row of trees. Suslov stopped suddenly and gasped. “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered.

  There were about ten trees, large and lush with fresh spring growth and with strong limbs. Each limb was festooned with the naked bodies of dead women and young girls hanging by their necks. He wanted to puke. Behind him he heard Martynov weeping. There had to be at least fifty bodies swaying in a macabre dance to the tune of the gentle breeze.

  He willed himself to walk among them. They were of all ages, from the very young to the withered and shockingly old. Some had been mutilated before being hanged, with their breasts cut off and bellies slashed open so that their entrails hung down toward the ground. A couple had had their eyes gouged out. Except for blackened faces caused by the slow strangulation they’d endured by hanging, they had not yet begun to bloat or discolor. They hadn’t been hanging there all that long.