saw a field. Even better, there were a couple of jeeps not too far away. As he dropped to the ground, he saw people running to them and driving toward where he would land. Help was coming and he knew he would need it fast.
The plane touched the uneven ground, skipped along, and finally came to a bumpy, jolting stop that made him scream from the pain of his shattered leg as the Piper hit every lump and furrow. Then there was silence and a feeling of deep peace settled over him. Mack Walters was delighted. As his world faded, his last living thought was how strange it was that his leg had stopped bleeding and he didn’t hurt anymore.
• • •
Harry Truman was outraged and felt betrayed. He glowered at the handful of people in the Oval Office.
“Would someone tell me just how the hell the Chicago Tribune gets away with printing national secrets? I knew that the Tribune’s publisher, McCormick, hated Roosevelt, but why has he transferred that nastiness to me?”
“Because we’re Democrats,” muttered Attorney General Francis Biddle. “Colonel Robert McCormick hated FDR with an intensity that bordered on the pathological. As Roosevelt’s successor, you are the logical beneficiary of his wrath. To McCormick, anything that smacks of the New Deal is evil. As the Tribune’s publisher, he can print pretty well anything he wishes if he isn’t afraid of the consequences.”
“Can we deny it?” Truman asked. “We still have a number of things we’ve either lied about or withheld from the public for the good of the war effort.”
General Marshall answered, “I don’t see how.”
The original press releases had referred only to a tragic misunderstanding that had caused “some casualties” and that steps were under way to ensure that the situation did not repeat itself. It was true, but terribly incomplete. Somehow, the Tribune had gotten hold of the full story of the battle and had printed it. Now the uproar was sweeping the United States and Congress was raging for an answer.
“The Tribune says there are more than ten thousand casualties,” Biddle said. “That can’t be correct. Aren’t most of them just missing?”
Marshall patiently instructed him that soldiers who were missing in action were counted as casualties, and that many were Russian prisoners. Gromyko had said five thousand, and no one could dispute him. “Dear God,” moaned Biddle.
Truman laughed bitterly. He didn’t like Biddle. The man was a weakling and some said he was totally dominated by the FBI director, J. Edgar Hoover. What the devil had FDR been thinking when he appointed the man? When the situation got settled, one of his first changes would be to name a new attorney general.
Marshall appeared deep in thought. He was still mulling over the flash message he had gotten from Ike’s headquarters. The implications were ominous, but he was not ready to share them with the others in the room.
“Sir,” Marshall finally said, “like everyone else gathered here, I have no idea which way the Russians will jump. It is indeed possible that the apparent victory over Germany will result in everything they wish, but I somehow doubt it. As Mr. Stettinius reported on Acheson’s meeting this morning with Gromyko, I think they will hang on to our boys in Potsdam as well as those in their prison camps and try to wring concessions out of us. Worst possible alternative is that they will launch an all-out attack across the Elbe that will result in a full-scale war.”
“If the Reds do come, is Ike prepared for it?” Truman asked.
“As much as anyone can be with so little time to actually do anything. However, if the Russians do attack, I am confident the results will not be as one-sided as the attack on Miller Force.”
Truman shook his head. “Gromyko has told us what they want in return for our boys. It is totally unacceptable, practically absurd. Berlin cannot be handed to them entirely. That would leave us very little control of Germany, and then only at the sufferance of Russia. Acheson thinks there’s a small possibility Gromyko’s comments might have been a starting point for real talks, but I am not so certain.”
The president stood and looked out the window behind his desk. “War with Russia?” he said, thinking aloud. “God help us.”
CHAPTER 9
Stalin seated himself. The building in which they were meeting was in the devastated German city of Kustrin and had been badly damaged. Light streamed through the shattered roof and dust was everywhere. He ignored it.
“Proceed,” directed Stalin.
Zhukov took a pointer and walked to the map. “We have developed a plan for the defeat of the Allies that will be both decisive and as swift as we can possibly make it. As a result, there will be very little subtlety in our attack. We will hit them, bleed them, and push them back. We have titled the plan ‘Red Inferno.’ “
“Good,” said Stalin.
“Nor, as you have wished, will there be any delay. Our forces are simply gathering their breath and not doing anything major in the way of resupply and reinforcing. Because of that, we are confident the attack will be totally unexpected.”
Stalin again agreed, and Zhukov felt his confidence growing.
“Comrade Stalin, our strategy is very simple. The main thrust will be against General Bradley’s army group. It will be attacked with overwhelming force and driven back to the Rhine. Koniev’s army will protect our southern flank and Rokossovsky’s will protect the north. Both those armies and others will be stripped to support the main attack, which will be led by General Chuikov and myself. Even reduced, however, Rokossovsky and Koniev will still be able to apply pressure against the American and British units confronting them.”
Zhukov pointed to a city on the map. “Even as we drive to the Rhine, we must plan to go on. Antwerp is the key. Militarily, Hitler was right when he started that assault in the Ardennes last December, the one the Americans refer to as the Battle of the Bulge. Take Antwerp, and the American advantage in supplies and ammunition will cease to exist. Take Antwerp from them, and the channel ports and Marseilles in the south will not be able to supply their armies in the manner they need to fight. Comrade Stalin, we take Antwerp and the Allies are through.”
Stalin’s eyes glowed with fervor as he thought of the possibilities success would bring. “What will the Allies be doing to stop us while we are driving on Antwerp?” he asked.
“Comrade Stalin, they will try to reinforce their armies from Italy, but we will choke that off by air attacks. Even if they do succeed to a point, Koniev will seal them off and prevent them from being a factor in the thrust toward Antwerp. They will also seek to prevent us from maintaining a steady stream of supplies through their own air power, which is much greater then that of the Nazis. The one who wins the supply war will win the shooting war.”
“What about Potsdam, Comrade Zhukov?”
Zhukov shrugged. “As I stated the last time we met, the Americans inside are of no consequence and can stay there and rot. I have General Bazarian and a reinforced corps of second-echelon soldiers keeping tabs on them, and he is free to do as he wishes so long as it does not interfere with our main purpose. His primary orders are to ensure that Miller Force does not get loose in our rear, or try to cut the autobahn, which we will be using for supplies.”
“How long will this campaign, this Red Inferno, take, Comrade Zhukov?”
Zhukov was reluctant to make a prediction. There were too many variables. However, he knew that an impatient Stalin wanted a schedule.
“Three to six months, comrade. In six months at the latest, we will be on the Rhine and in Antwerp. At that point we can either dictate peace or keep going into France.” Zhukov chuckled. “I have never seen Paris,” he joked.
Stalin too smiled at the thought. He would have preferred that Zhukov had predicted a quicker victory. So much could occur in six months. Yet he knew his armies were tired and that the Americans would likely fight bitterly to prevent being expelled.
