Burke walked up the stairs and into the night. It had gotten dark since the meeting started. He walked briskly to his tent. He would have to write down everything that had transpired at this meeting before his memory dimmed. Somewhat against regulations, he had been keeping a journal since that fateful night in Washington when the Russian colonel slipped him the message.
If the atomic bomb did work and wiped out the Russian command, his comments could have indeed affected history. What would Natalie think of what he had done? And, he thought, what about his future students? They would be told as well. What would their reaction be? Would they consider him a hero or a murderer? Suddenly, he had doubts.
He could hide behind the fact that the ultimate decision was Ike’s, but his comments had affected the choice of where the most horrifying weapon in mankind’s history would be used. He had the feeling that the date of August 6, 1945, was going to go down in history.
A macabre predictability developed regarding the Russian artillery barrages at Potsdam. Although infrequent, the bombardments always began during the night and shook Logan and his men out of their sleep, so that they spent the rest of the night either cringing from the shells or awaiting the infantry attack that they all knew would someday follow. With the fighting on the Weser coming to a head, it seemed logical that the Russians would soon decide to end the siege of Potsdam once and for all.
But the bombardments, although heavy, came at intervals. The shells would land all along the defenses and then the Russian artillerymen would walk their following rounds through the perimeter and in the general direction of the river. It was as if, lacking solid knowledge of specific targets, they were going to try to destroy everything. As before, American counterfire was limited to specific targets to conserve ammo and not give away the guns’ locations. The American command wondered if the Russians had gotten more ammo or they were using up all they had.
By midafternoon it seemed apparent that this day’s softening-up process would continue for a while, although the outposts had noted no signs of any major Russian troop movements in the direction of the American positions.
“We got us another lull,” said Bailey. He was covered with dirt from earthshaking near misses, as were Logan and the others. “You gonna check?”
Logan was in agony. Were they safe? But could he leave his men?
“Lieutenant,” snapped Bailey in a low voice the others couldn’t hear, “get the fuck out there and find out. All of us want to know. You’re not the only one who likes her.”
Logan darted from the bunker and found one of his men’s bicycles undamaged on the ground. He mounted and pedaled furiously to where Elisabeth and Pauli had been sheltered in the basement of a church. When he arrived, there was a crowd around the entrance and there were bloodied bodies on the ground.
“No,” he said, and then he saw Lis and Pauli, bedraggled but unharmed, standing a short distance away. He dropped the bike and ran up to them, and they hugged.
“What happened?” he asked, although the answer was fairly obvious.
“Part of the roof collapsed under the shelling. It was terrible. The screams of the injured were awful and the blinding dust made helping them almost impossible. So many are dead. It was just like Berlin.” She started to shake, and he held her again to calm her.
After a moment, Logan grabbed her arm and she pulled Pauli along. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” she sobbed.
“If I can’t find anyplace else, I’ll take you back to my bunker.” At least, he thought wryly, the roof had held up so far. The sight of the ruined shelter confirmed his worst nightmare. The military bunkers were far better constructed than those for the civilians, and the carnage among nonmilitary personnel was bound to be awful.
The three of them ran, painfully aware that the Russians could begin shelling at any time. They were in the misleadingly calm eye of a military hurricane. Suddenly, Logan stopped and stood in amazement. An airplane was coming straight down the street at him. It was Ames the reporter in his Piper Cub. He had found a stretch of level ground and was planning to take off.
“He’s leaving,” yelled Logan. He ran directly in front of the slowly moving plane and waved. Ames, looking pale and confused by the interruption, stopped, but did not cut the engine.
“Get out of my way, soldier.”
Logan opened the passenger door and grabbed Ames by the arm. “You’re taking two people out of here.”
“Bullshit, this plane is full.”
Logan pulled his pistol, cocked it, and placed it next to Ames’s skull. Ames paled and tried to pull back. With his free hand, Logan yanked on Ames’s duffel bag and threw it on the ground. “I say this plane has room.” Logan grabbed another sack and flung it to the ground.
“Hey,” screamed Ames, “some of that stuff doesn’t even belong to me.”
“Tough shit. And don’t move this plane when I take this gun off your head. If you even try, I’ll put a bullet through you or that gas you got stored in the back. If it goes up, you’ll be just another large grease fire.”
Ames glanced back at the stack of five-gallon cans loaded for extra fuel, gulped, and nodded reluctant agreement. Logan picked up an unprotesting Elisabeth and pushed her into the plane. Then he handed her Pauli, and the boy settled in on Elisabeth’s lap on the seat behind Ames.
“Now,” Logan snarled at Ames, “get the fuck out of here.”
A relieved Ames needed no further encouragement. Logan stepped away as Ames turned the little craft in the direction of the clear ground. Logan stared as Elisabeth looked at him through the small window. Neither attempted to say anything. He tried to memorize her pale and frightened face. It had all been so sudden, and one way or another, she and Pauli were actually leaving Potsdam.
The Piper Cub picked up speed and quickly lifted off until it was about fifty feet off the ground, then it began to settle back down. Logan screamed in horror, thinking it was going to crash, until it steadied at the ridiculously low altitude of only about twenty feet and headed toward the river. It was barely visible when he saw it turn left toward Berlin. He understood Ames’s plan. The reporter was going to try to fly northwest toward the Danish border. That way he might stand a chance of staying out of the great battles to the west. As to the low altitude, it would help him stay invisible and avoid any conflicts he couldn’t possibly win. Logan could only pray that Ames’s skills as a pilot were up to the demands of flying at what was less than treetop height. He also prayed that he had done the right thing for Elisabeth and Pauli.
He heard footsteps pounding up to him. “I ought to court-martial your ass!” snarled an infuriated and livid Captain Dimitri. “That was a dumb fucking trick to pull.”
Logan stood up. “Guess what, Captain, I don’t really give a shit! I just hope I did the right thing for them and that maybe they’ll have a chance to live. You saw what happened at the church. The civilians are going to die. Maybe we’ll get lucky and become prisoners, but not them. Even if they survive the artillery, they’re going to get butchered if we lose. If I saved them from that fate, then anything you have in mind for me is okay.”
Dimitri stared at him, his anger quickly ebbing. “Go back to your bunker, Lieutenant,” he managed to say. “We stay out here any longer and the Russians are going to start shelling again. We’ll talk about it later. If there is a later, that is.”
Field Marshal Georgi Zhukov growled as the air-raid sirens went off again and then suddenly cut short, as if someone had pulled the plug. “What now?”
Chuikov put down a field phone and shrugged. “More American planes, comrade. Perhaps it’s our turn to be bombed. Shall we go to a shelter?” They were in the basement of a ruined farmhouse.
“How many planes?” asked Zhukov. He waited a moment while Chuikov asked for and got the needed information. Great waves of American bombers had been attacking to the north. These were fairly ineffective attacks, as his tanks were hidden and not parked in tight rows. Even so, they did cause damage. He needed at least one more day to complete the allocation of scarce fuel among the vehicles to ensure a continuation of their attacks on the American positions.
“Just three,” said Chuikov. “Probably those damned photo planes they send over every now and then. That is why the sirens cut out so quickly.”
Zhukov accepted the comment and dismissed the planes as relatively unimportant. Once again he pored over the maps of the area and how they tied in with the complex plan for the next series of assaults. He would not
