He looked at the Russian tanks. They were advancing faster toward him than he could ever think of running. They were outstripping their own infantry, which was rapidly being left behind. He whimpered without realizing it and settled himself to wait for whatever the Russians might do.
The sound of airplane engines from behind him caused him to look up quickly as a pair of American P-47 fighter-bombers roared only a few feet overhead. Their machine guns chewed through the Russian infantry but did no harm to the tanks. The fighters banked sharply and began strafing the rear of the Russian tanks and firing their five-inch rockets. This time the Russian tanks suffered. Less heavily armored in the top and rear, several of them took hits and exploded.
“Kill the bastards!” Tony yelled.
In a moment, however, the two planes were out of rockets and ammunition. He watched sadly as they flew off, leaving the field to the Russians. For a second time, he sat and waited for the inevitable, knowing full well that the Reds would be pissed at the aerial attack and would likely take it out on potential prisoners.
Thus, he watched incredulously as the Russian column veered away from the killing ground and turned off on a mission of its own. He stood up and unconsciously dusted himself off. He was alive. Damned alone, but alive. Find a weapon, he told himself, and get the hell out of here. And oh yeah, just who the hell was the enemy, the Germans or the Russians?
He found an M1 Garand on a body from a half-track and took it along with a couple of clips of ammunition. He looked at the wounded. Only a couple were still alive and he didn’t think they would last long. Maybe the Reds would find them and care for them. There sure as hell wasn’t anything he could do.
He swore and half sobbed in frustration as he walked quickly away. Damn Brentwood and his run for glory, and damn the Russians.
CHAPTER 6
The first hint of an attack was the screaming sound of airplane engines and the chatter of machine guns as a wave of Russian fighters flew low over them, strafing them.
“Those are Russian Stormoviks,” yelled Singer as they hunched in their hastily dug foxholes.
In his own hole a few feet away, Logan didn’t give a shit what type of planes they were, just so long as they didn’t shoot him.
Unimpeded by any opposition, the Red planes made pass after pass, hitting tanks and mangling other vehicles. Some attempt was made to shoot at them with machine guns and other small arms, but with no apparent effect. He watched incredulously as a stream of machine-gun bullets bounced off the armored belly of one low-flying Russian plane. The Russians had flying tanks, he thought.
Logan slowly realized he was fairly safe in his burrow. The planes were destroying vehicles, not looking for red-haired platoon sergeants. Even so, the air was alive with a hot rain of flying debris and metal fragments that could kill as quickly as a well-aimed bullet. He fought the urge to continue looking around and tucked his head down so that his steel pot protected it. He cupped his balls with his hands and wished he had another helmet for them as well. A lot of guys protected their testicles with their helmets, instead of their skulls. A helluva choice to make, he thought.
Jack could hear the screams and moans of the wounded. An explosion sent another shower of debris onto him and he heard an animal-like shriek that was almost in his ear. Doubtless one of his men, but which one? And where the hell were the American planes? Thank God they’d had enough warning time to dig in at least a little bit. Had the enemy planes caught them on the road and in their trucks, the slaughter would have been unimaginable. As it was, it would be bad enough.
As suddenly as they had arrived, the Red planes were gone, their ammunition spent. Logan jumped out of his hole and started to check his men when the cry of “medic” came from only a few feet away. He recognized Crawford’s voice and ran to where the young PFC was cradling a bloody Lieutenant Singer.
“Aw, Christ,” Logan said as he saw the mangled ruin of Singer’s left arm. Bloody bones and muscle were visible, and they were connected to his upper arm and shoulder by only a few threads of flesh and gray muscle. Singer’s face was pale and he appeared to be unconscious. With Crawford’s help, Logan attached a tourniquet and tried to make Singer as comfortable as possible. He covered him with a blanket to prevent shock until he could get a medic or take him to a hospital tent. If there were any hospitals, he thought.
Having done what he could, Logan checked the rest of his men and found only one other slightly wounded. Fearful of leaving his comrades, that soldier refused to go to the rear. Logan didn’t have time to argue and left him with his buddies.
The road was littered with damaged and burning vehicles of all types, and many were surrounded by the fragmentary and smoking remains of their crews.
Logan was vomiting on the ground when Captain Dimitri found him. Dimitri’s face was one of controlled fury. “Where the hell is Singer?”
“Badly wounded, Captain. I think he’s gonna lose his arm.”
“Goddamnit.”
“Captain, how bad off are we?”
Dimitri shook his head. He was having difficulty comprehending the magnitude of what had just occurred. “Looks like a half dozen killed in the company and maybe twice that many wounded. It’s bad, but it could have been a lot worse. Do you hear the big guns?”
Logan hadn’t. Concentrating entirely on his own problems, he had been unaware of the crash and rumble of artillery fire that was coming from the west of their position back toward the Elbe.
“Those poor bastards down there,” Dimitri said, “are really getting clobbered. Battalion says they are being hit by waves of armor. At least we’ve been spared that.” Dimitri smiled wryly. “Thank God for small favors.”
Captain Dimitri told Logan where he could find some help for Singer and departed to continue checking on the rest of his company. What the hell is going on? Logan thought. Just a little while ago we were all planning on going home. Now the Russians have attacked. Do we have a whole new war? Against Russia? He had heard of the size and ferocity of the Russian military and had no urge to test the truth of the stories.
Logan and the rest of his platoon stayed in their positions for a couple of hours until they saw the familiar form of Captain Dimitri again approaching. He could tell from the look on the captain’s face that they would be moving and there would be new holes to dig.
“Logan,” Dimitri snapped. “You’re in charge, at least for the time being. Take a couple of men and a jeep down the road and see what’s happened to our armor and if the Russians are coming.”
“I sure as hell hope they aren’t, Captain,” he said, and Dimitri grunted.
Twenty minutes later, Logan’s slowly moving jeep found what appeared to be the point of the column. Ruined and burning tanks and half-tracks littered the field along with a number of bodies. There was no sign of the Russians. A small blessing, Logan thought. They were out there, and he wondered if Red Army scouts were watching him and his jeep and wondering if they should kill him. Now I know how someone who’s paranoid feels, he thought.
They got out and walked around, checking to make sure that no American was still alive. None were. There were too many dead to take back in the jeep. Jack hated to leave them, but had no choice.
“Sarge, I think we should go,” said Crawford.
Logan concurred. They were well ahead of their column and the only people to their front would be Russians. They’d stayed long enough and were pushing their luck. A burst of machine-gun fire chewed up the ground near them, punctuating their thoughts.
“Agreed. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
There was no more firing from the unseen Russian gun. Maybe the Reds were taunting them. What the hell was happening? Goddamnit, Logan snarled silently. They were supposed to be going home soon.
• • •
Wolfgang von Schumann watched incredulously as the attack on the Americans took place about a mile away from where he and his flock huddled along the riverbank. It was incredible, like watching a pageant unfolding. The Russians and the Americans were fighting each other. He recalled an officer in an SS unit a long
