“When will it begin?”
“Tonight, Comrade Stalin,” said Zhukov, enjoying the look of pleased surprise on the other man’s face.
The large, drab tent suited the mood of the men all too well. The flap opened and Major General Francis “Freddie” de Guingand entered, smiling affably at the handful of confreres at SHAEF’s field headquarters near Reims, France. De Guingand was liked and respected by the Americans. His boss, Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery, was not.
“Where the hell is Monty?” snapped Beetle Smith.
“He could not make it,” sighed de Guingand. “The suddenness of the meeting conflicted with other plans. I believe he is in London, meeting with Sir Alan Brooke. Therefore, you have the honor and high pleasure of dealing with me.”
“Bullshit.” Beetle Smith chuckled. “But probably just as well. At least you understand English.”
“Freddie,” injected Ike, “we are trying to decide just what the Russians are up to. This afternoon we received a piece of information that could be of enormous significance.”
Bradley interrupted. Ike did not mind. “Aerial reconnaissance photos. The pilot died getting them.”
“Which,” Smith added, “does not necessarily mean the objects he photographed are going to be used as he thought. He may have died a hero, but he still could be wrong.”
De Guingand reached for the small pile of glossies and perused them. “My, my. It does look like bridging equipment and small boats. Where on earth were these things when the pictures were taken?”
“Only a couple of miles east of the Elbe and in the middle of a huge tank park,” Bradley answered. “These were the only things that were camouflaged. Everything else-tanks, guns, trucks, men-was all in plain sight, but the bridging equipment and the boats were hidden. The pilot of the scout plane saw them and was shot down for his pains. He died after making a crash landing on our side of the Elbe.”
“So,” said Freddie, helping himself to a sandwich, “the question becomes, Why did the Russians bring the equipment to the Elbe. Was it a mistake? Just the normal baggage of an army on the move? Or”-he paused, unintentionally dramatic-“are they intending to cross? And another thought. If there is one place where they are hidden, mightn’t there be a number of others?”
“Exactly,” said Bradley. “We think they are going to try and pull another sneak attack, just like what they did to Miller, only this time much, much bigger. We have other recon planes out trying to confirm this. It would mean an all-out war, and not just the mess at Potsdam.” His normally gloomy face was more downcast than usual.
De Guingand said solemnly, “That equipment is intended to be used.”
Ike stood and paced nervously. “I agree too. Freddie, ever since the incident with Miller, we’ve been making contingency plans that would cover just such an eventuality as a full war with Russia. We have to let them fire the first shot, but then we must be united, and that means you must convince Montgomery to cooperate fully and without question.” A thought struck him. “Good God, what do we do about the Germans? Do we continue to fight them as well?”
No one had an answer.
Second Lieutenant Billy Tolliver desperately wished that he was back at home in the sleepy backwater town of Opelika, Alabama, instead of hiding by the Elbe River, above the German town of Magdeburg. It was night and he was on the east-facing front of a low hill, scarcely a mound, that gave him a decent view of the river, which was only about a half mile away. It was not a pleasant sight. The entire world about him was going up in flame and fury as hundreds of big Russian guns pounded the area behind him with their shells.
If it hadn’t been for the fact that two of the three men he’d brought with him were now dead, he would have found humor in that all the Russians were doing with their barrage was to churn up the dirt and make it easier for the German farmers to plant their crops. He and the annoying PFC Holmes were likely the only Americans alive in the area, and Holmes’s radio was their only direct link to the outside world. Holmes was annoying because he thought he knew everything and spoke with a nasal New England accent.
Holmes had burrowed himself deep in a foxhole as Tolliver watched while the Russians completed the bridging of the Elbe with methodical and ominous efficiency. Soon the first bridge would be complete and the second, only a few yards downstream, would follow in a matter of minutes. Both spans were swarming with people connecting pontoons and bridge segments. In the moonlight, he could also see what appeared to be a long line of T34 tanks waiting patiently for the bridges to be done so they could rumble across.
Without fanfare and almost without Tolliver realizing it, the first bridge was finished. Then the second. “Holmes, tell them people back at battalion that tanks are starting to cross.”
He thought about telling them that he was going to leave in about thirty seconds, but decided not to mention it. He was afraid he might be ordered to stay and fight to the last man, which he did not think was a good idea.
An explosion shook both bridges as a bomb landed between them, causing a geyser of water to lift high in the air. “What the hell,” Tolliver yelled gleefully. Then he saw the faint shadow of a passing plane in the dark sky. He briefly caught a faint silhouette and thought it was a P-47 Thunderbolt.
An excited Holmes appeared beside him. “Holy shit, sir, we’re hitting back.” Russian antiaircraft tracer fire punctuated the statement. It didn’t appear that they were shooting at anything in particular. Nor were they hitting anything.
“Yeah,” said Tolliver. “Hey, don’t those things usually fly around in pairs?”
As Tolliver made the comment, the second Thunderbolt roared low overhead and dropped its bomb load. This time, it was close enough for the blast to separate the upstream bridge from its mooring. While they watched, fascinated, the bridge swung until it collided with its downstream brother. The jolt separated more sections and dumped a couple of tanks, along with about a score of men, into the water, where they disappeared.
Both men whooped as the planes returned again to strafe the Russian side of the river. Then they became aware of a new sound in the air-Russian planes had belatedly arrived to protect the vulnerable crossing site. In horror, they watched as one of the P-47s lost a wing and cartwheeled into the ground while the other flew away, its bombs and bullets expended.
“Holmes,” said Tolliver, “this has just gotten bigger than all of us. You think you can find where you hid that jeep yesterday?”
“Not a doubt in my military mind, sir.”
“Good,” said Tolliver. “We’ve seen more than enough Russian firepower. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
News of the Russian crossing of the Elbe sent everyone in the Potsdam perimeter to their battle stations in the middle of the night. Discipline was good, and only a few shots were fired at shadows and stray animals. When the dawn came, so too did relief. There was no sign of the Russian army. Patrols and listening posts reported that nearby Red tanks had not moved. This was quickly confirmed by scout planes that braved the battles going on around the Elbe to provide Potsdam with the needed information regarding nearby Soviet locations.
Thus, by midmorning life in Potsdam had returned to a semblance of normality. The soldiers were told to stand down and get some rest, and food was prepared. For Jack Logan, it meant that he could finally visit the hospital where Lieutenant Singer was convalescing.
On arrival, Logan was appalled by the number of wounded in the makeshift hospital in the palace of Sanssouci, once used by the Kaiser. He really hadn’t known what to expect and he thought he had been steeled for the worst. But he had not been prepared for the sight of hundreds of men lying in rows of beds amid remnants of baroque splendor. Many of the wounded were heavily bandaged, and many were also moaning and crying in pain. It was the sounds of pain that got him, along with the smell of antiseptic and the primal scent of fear. The sounds were a low chorus of agony while medics and doctors moved among them. It was hard to believe that the battle that had caused the majority of the wounds had been days ago.
With good directions from a harried medic, he found Singer. The once plump lieutenant was a sallow- cheeked parody of himself. Logan tried not to stare at the heavily bandaged shoulder and short stump, which was all that remained of Singer’s left arm.
With some effort, Singer greeted him. “Good to see you, Jack, and congratulations. You’ll make a great officer. Even better than me.”
Logan smiled. “I see news travels fast around here.”
“Captain Dimitri came by and told me yesterday. Besides,” he chided, “your stripes have been removed from
