and gave Jack a moment. He’d seen that reaction all too often. Home was another world, and many GIs had walled themselves away from it.
“And maybe finally,” Ames said, “what about a girlfriend? Got one?”
Jack smiled. “I hope so.”
Ames continued to scribble in his notepad. “She back home in Michigan?”
“Nope. She’s here.”
Ames blinked. “What? Oh, Christ, now I know who you are. I’ve seen you with that young German girl.”
“Are we that obvious?”
Ames laughed. “Damned straight, you are. You’re either the luckiest man in the world or the smartest. How the hell did you find a young woman like her in a hell hole like this?”
Jack gave him a summary of how they’d met and a little of her background. “If you want some more personal stuff from her, I think it’d be better if she told you and not me.”
“Nasty?”
“Some of it. Even so, she was luckier than most.”
Ames understood. The girl hadn’t been raped. They shook hands. Ames checked his notes. Ordinarily it would be just another human-interest story, but Logan’s finding a girl in Potsdam was a good one. He would look up the girl and interview her as well. Maybe something about love and romance in the middle of war and the squalor of Potsdam would play well back home.
He hummed happily. If he played this right and he actually got out of Potsdam before the shit hit the fan, he might just win himself a Pulitzer. First, however, he had to figure out when was the time to leave and how. Miller had already made noises about taking his plane for reconnaissance purposes. No sir, that couldn’t be permitted to happen. That was his ticket out and a chance to win Mr. Pulitzer’s little prize.
“I am angry,” declared Chuikov. His jaw was set and his eyes burning with rage. “No, I am furious. Comrade Zhukov, we need men and we need fuel. Someone is failing us.”
Zhukov looked about him in the small room he’d commandeered in Hanover. He looked grim. “Be careful. You run the risk of being accused of criticizing comrade Stalin.” Unspoken was the fact that anyone could be listening and could turn on them. No one was safe in Stalin’s Russia.
Chuikov started to say something more, then smiled sweetly. “Of course I would never criticize our beloved Josef Stalin, comrade Marshal. How could you even infer such a thing?”
“Good. Now let us understand that we will deal with the Allies using the tools at hand, not the tools we wish we had. The high command believes that these tools will be more than enough to ensure victory. Do you not agree?”
“Comrade Zhukov, Stavka and comrade Stalin are far, far away. At risk of again being accused of criticisms, I am afraid they do not understand the full complexities of the task before us. We have been resting our men and hoarding supplies for two weeks now and are ready to begin the assault on the Americans on the other side of the Weser. Have no doubt, we will cross that damned river. When we accomplish that task, next we will be up against the Rhine and the Maas before we reach Antwerp. I am afraid that we will again be forced to pause before we even think of eliminating the Rhine barrier. I shudder at the thought of sending our armies against American- occupied heights along the west bank of the Rhine.”
Zhukov agreed. He’d reminded Stavka of the hard-fought and costly battles against the Germans on the Oder when the Nazis fought hard for Berlin. He assured them it would not get easier. The Rhine could prove to be a mighty barrier. All the more reason to destroy the Americans this side of it.
Unlike the Germans they’d fought on the Oder, the Americans were neither disorganized nor demoralized as they continued their withdrawal. They had fought tenaciously and well for every inch of ground since the Red Army crossed the Elbe, retreating only when it was militarily expedient. Whoever said the capitalists wouldn’t fight was wrong.
The Americans still had the cream of their youth in their lines and they were pouring weapons into Europe. Weapons, not men. Spies had told Stavka that the Allied numbers had been only slightly augmented by new arrivals. Zhukov smiled. Perhaps there was a limit to the American horn of plenty, after all.
There was, however, a very real limit to what the Red Army could accomplish and that concerned him greatly.
Zhukov put his hands behind him and began to pace. “I have stripped both Koniev and Rokossovsky of much of their armor and air cover in order to make this final push successful.”
“I know, and I am grateful. But all of these tanks and planes need fuel, and we are not getting it. What little we have in reserve is not enough, and what is in the rear areas is just not getting through. The same is true of heavy weapons. We both know there are literally hundreds, perhaps thousands, of tanks, T34s and Stalins, in hiding in eastern Germany and Poland because we cannot transport them safely to the front. The damned Yank bombers have disrupted road and rail traffic for hundreds of miles. We can repair most damage within a day or two, but the bombing occurs continuously and, worse, they keep destroying the bridges. Those, we cannot rebuild quickly. Nor can we simply drive them, because we lack the fuel.”
Chuikov took a deep breath. “Comrade Zhukov, with your permission, I am changing the immediate goal of the army.”
Zhukov was surprised. “You are what?”
“We will not be driving straight for the Rhine. Instead, we will be aiming toward Dortmund.”
“But why? That would have your armies veering north toward Amsterdam, not Antwerp. Why on earth are you interested in a detour toward Dortmund?”
Chuikov’s craggy face lit up with a smile. “Because the Americans have recently turned the area around Dortmund into a massive supply and fuel depot. Our planes have confirmed the existence of resources beyond our dreams. If we can take Dortmund, we will have all the American fuel we would ever need to complete our offensive, not to mention food and vehicles.”
Zhukov shook his head. “I do not recall that area being serviced by enough roads and rail lines to make the existence of such an immense depot likely.”
Chuikov smiled and passed over some eight-by-ten photographs. “Look at these. They have built major arteries to the depots and have done so just recently. These are the supplies the Americans will need to stop us. If we take them, the Americans will either be forced to retreat precipitously or will have to die protecting them.”
Zhukov studied the photos. What they showed was an extraordinary and sudden buildup. “Chuikov, I’ve seen your supply figures. If you make that detour and fail, you run the risk of running on empty fuel tanks.”
“That will also happen if we do nothing, comrade,” Chuikov said grimly. “The supply figures you’ve been provided from Moscow are, shall we say, optimistic? We’ve calculated everything more realistically, and there is no way we can force the Weser and reach the Rhine without the supplies the Americans have at Dortmund.”
Zhukov continued his pacing. Did they have a choice? He had nearly two and a half million men ready to attack the Americans. Despite losses, there were still thousands of tanks and thousands more pieces of artillery as well as additional thousands of planes to hurl at them. The Americans had hurt the Russian advance, but not stopped it. Only the threatened lack of fuel could stop the Red Army.
Perhaps also, Zhukov thought, the Americans would finally be put in a position where they could not refuse a battle of attrition, which the Red Army would certainly win. He and Chuikov had tried hard to make the Americans stand and fight to the death, but the Yanks would have none of it. No one in their right mind would want to fight the Russian bear at close quarters.
But sooner or later they would have to. Would it be at Dortmund? If so, perhaps Russia could win and end the war. This could occur if they could kill enough Americans on the east side of the Rhine so that the rest would lack the will to fight. American soldiers might be brave, but their political leaders were not, and they must be cringing at the thought of the losses they were incurring.
After all, it wasn’t as if the Americans were fighting for their homes. For that matter, he realized grudgingly, neither were his own troops. He had begun to notice a distinct lack of enthusiasm on the part of his soldiers and even some of his generals. He would have to deal with that, and very ruthlessly.
“The Americans must bleed,” Zhukov said.
“They will. The preparatory bombing will begin shortly, although with great care not to hit the Dortmund area. We will pretend we don’t know it exists. We will use every plane in our possession and hammer them along the Weser. This will be followed by an intense and prolonged artillery barrage, something the Americans have
