shaky.
“Sorry, Lieutenant.”
Logan hadn’t told him the whole truth. He would have to learn for himself about bowel-emptying fear and the horror of seeing a friend blown to little red pieces. There were some things you had to live for yourself and could not describe for others. Sergeant Logan, D Company, and the entire division had been in Europe since January 1945, a mere four months. At least they had missed out on the big German attack in the Ardennes, but they and he had been involved in a number of minor skirmishes that could be as deadly as one of those major and climactic battles historians were going to discuss for generations.
Singer laughed quietly. “Captain Dimitri told me to stick with you because you were such a combat veteran.”
Captain Dimitri chose that moment to stop by and squatted on the ground next to them. Singer remembered not to stand up and snap to attention like so many new men did. Dimitri, like most experienced officers, did not like actions that drew unnecessary attention to them in a combat zone. Dimitri also carried a rifle instead of the. 45 automatic he was entitled to, again so he wouldn’t stand out to a sniper. Snipers loved shooting officers.
“What’s so funny?” Dimitri asked. “You people haven’t decided that this monumental adventure we are about to depart on is a joke, now, have you?”
Before Lieutenant Singer could form a reply, Logan answered. “No, sir, we haven’t gotten that far. We were just discussing why I am qualified as a combat instructor. But now that you mention it, this does have all the earmarks of a fiasco.”
Dimitri half smiled. “Better a fiasco than a tragedy. But why, Sergeant Logan?”
“Captain, because we’re sending one long column up one thin road toward Berlin. It can be blocked or ambushed at any place or at any time. Didn’t the British get their asses all chewed up trying to do something similar near Arnhem a while ago? Worse, it looks like someone got armor and mounted infantry all mixed up together, although at least the lead infantry are in half-tracks, which will provide some protection against small arms if they’re shot at. Unfortunately, the rest of us have to ride in trucks, and canvas sides won’t stop a peashooter. Frankly, sir, I’d rather walk.”
“Can’t,” said Dimitri. “We wouldn’t be able to keep up with the high-speed convoy that will soon be racing down those excellent German roads toward Berlin.”
Both Logan and Singer caught the note of sarcasm in the captain’s voice. Nobody was going to race. The move forward would be slow and cautious. “At least,” Singer said, “we won’t be in the lead group, where the action will likely take place.”
Captain Dimitri rose to leave and shouldered his carbine. “Tell him, Sergeant Logan,” he said as he walked on.
“Tell me what?” Singer asked as the captain departed. He had the terrible feeling that the captain and the sergeant, who went back a ways together, were laughing at him. Somehow, he didn’t really mind it. They were the experienced soldiers and not he, and, despite Logan’s protestations, the sergeant was a solid and respected soldier.
“Sir,” said Logan, “if you were a German unit setting up an ambush, which would you prefer to attack, the heavily armored and protected head of the column, or those soft, fat, and dumb trucks?”
Singer shook his head sadly. “You go for the trucks. Then the head of the column would have to hold up and wait until things got sorted out. Damn. Maybe we should volunteer for point. I promised my wife’s parents that I’d keep her as a JAP, and I’d like a chance to keep that promise.”
“What’s a JAP?” Logan asked, feeling that Singer was teasing him.
Singer grinned. “Jewish American Princess. And I do think it’d be best to be the lead dog.”
“That’s right,” said Logan. “And if they do set up a roadblock to delay the point of the column, then the rest of us will have to stop and wait for it to be cleared. Sitting ducks is the phrase I think fits best.”
“Shit. Well, intelligence says the Germans are gone.”
“Lieutenant,” laughed Logan, “with all respects to the fine men in G-2, I will believe that when pigs fly.”
Singer was puzzled. “Sergeant Logan, how come you’re not an officer? You are certainly intelligent enough, and I understand you do have a couple years of college.”
Logan shrugged. “At one time I thought I was going to be an officer. I tested out okay and put in the papers for Officer Candidate School down at Fort Benning, but we all got shipped out before anything could happen. My tough luck, I guess. At any rate, I can’t complain. I got my three stripes fast enough and, now that I’m a platoon sergeant, I think they owe me one more.”
Singer got up and left, saying he was going to write a quick note to his wife before they moved out, and Logan wondered what kind of woman he’d married. Lieutenant Singer was short and a little plump. Logan wondered if his wife was short and plump as well. He shook his head. No way he should start fantasizing about his lieutenant’s unseen bride. He stood and shook the dirt off the seat of his pants. Time to get his squad together and make sure the new lieutenant didn’t get lost on the way to Berlin.
Logan guessed he was flattered that it was he who was assigned as Singer’s babysitter until the man got the necessary experience. First Sergeant Krenski was just as happy to have the virgin Lieutenant Singer out of the way until he learned the lay of the land and could actually begin leading.
Logan looked again at the line of tanks now moving slowly down the road preparatory to jumping off for Berlin. The tanks, even with their high silhouettes and stubby guns, still looked strong and powerful. So how come he had this feeling of foreboding?
The small room in the Kremlin was brightly lit by the sun streaming through the high glass windows, which had been built in the days before electricity. The glare caused Josef Stalin to blink as he entered. The other two men ignored the premier’s momentary discomfort as he moved behind the desk and seated himself. Stalin, who was quite short, liked to be seated when in the company of others. The first of the two men was the bespectacled Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov, who at age fifty-five held the official title of Commissar for Foreign Affairs, although he fulfilled whatever duties Stalin assigned him.
The second man was Lavrentii Pavlovich Beria, the squinty-eyed and reptilian chief of state security, the dreaded NKVD. He held the rank of marshal. Beria’s army consisted of border guards and, most important, those men whose duty was to hold the regular army commanders responsible for their loyalty. Virtually at will or whim, they could shoot deserters or execute officers for failure to accomplish tasks. It hardly mattered whether the tasks were achievable. The NKVD considered failure as treason. Along with enjoying torturing people, rumor also had it that Beria was fond of small children.
Molotov and Beria waited impassively while Stalin stripped the tobacco from a couple of cigarettes, tamped the shreds into the bowl of an old pipe he habitually used, and lighted it. Each of the two men knew his place. They were Stalin’s key advisers, but not trusted ones. Stalin trusted no one. Each knew that one misstep could result in his own personal destruction. They both knew what screaming horrors were in store for those who found themselves the targets of Stalin’s wrath, and whose lives ended in the basement of the NKVD’s Lubyanka prison. Even Beria, who administered the Lubyanka, knew he was only a word away from dying there.
Stalin blew out a cloud of noxious smoke. “You’ve read this man Truman’s message. What do you think?”
Molotov knew he had to speak first. “Incredible,” he said, and Beria nodded.
“Comrade Molotov, I expected more of a response.”
Molotov found himself sweating and knew it wasn’t the heat. “It is as if it were Churchill speaking and not Truman. With Roosevelt dead, there appears to be a degree of confusion in the White House.” Again, Beria nodded.
“Comrade Molotov, do you know Truman?”
“I met him briefly, but I do not know him well at all. Few do. As you know, he came from nowhere, a political nothing.”
It was not quite a lie. Molotov had racked his brain and been unable to recall meeting Truman at any time, but concluded that it was prudent to say he must have met the former senator from Missouri who was, until very recently, the almost anonymous vice president of the United States.
Stalin relit his pipe. “Yet I am expected to believe this nonsense? That, in the name of our sacred and fraternal alliance against the Hitlerites, the Americans are going to send two full divisions into Berlin as a favor to us? I suspect the treacherous hand of Churchill in this American action. He has coerced the Americans into taking
