“Tell them this is important,” he snapped, and the radio operator jumped. “Ask them if the Russian tanks look like the German Panther.” He could only hope the lookout was familiar with German armor.
“No, sir. They don’t.”
Von Schumann chuckled. “This isn’t the main attack, General Miller. They are not using T34s, therefore this is only a face-saving diversion by this Bazarian.”
“You’re certain?” Miller asked.
“The German Panther tank was a Nazi response to the Russian T34. The silhouettes are very similar. I believe the attacking tanks are indeed the BT5s we know he has. Their primary use nowadays is for scouting, not heavy combat.” He thought quickly. “Perhaps Bazarian doesn’t have any modern tanks? Perhaps Moscow considers this a backwater?”
“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.”
• • •
J OSEF S TALIN 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
