Robert Conroy - Red Inferno

They got out and walked around, checking to make sure that no American was still alive. None were. There were too many dead to take back in the jeep. Jack hated to leave them, but had no choice.

“Sarge, I think we should go,” said Crawford.

Logan concurred. They were well ahead of their column and the only people to their front would be Russians. They’d stayed long enough and were pushing their luck. A burst of machine-gun fire chewed up the ground near them, punctuating their thoughts.

“Agreed. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

There was no more firing from the unseen Russian gun. Maybe the Reds were taunting them. What the hell was happening? Goddamnit, Logan snarled silently. They were supposed to be going home soon.

• • •

Wolfgang von Schumann watched incredulously as the attack on the Americans took place about a mile away from where he and his flock huddled along the riverbank. It was incredible, like watching a pageant unfolding. The Russians and the Americans were fighting each other. He recalled an officer in an SS unit a long time ago saying that Hitler believed the Anglo-American-Russian alliance against the Third Reich was so fragile that it would shatter into brawling fragments before the Allies could destroy Germany.

Had Hitler been right? If so, what did this mean for Germany? For that matter, von Schumann wondered, was Hitler still alive to appreciate the situation? For what the fuhrer had done to his beloved Germany, von Schumann fervently wished death for Hitler. Whatever approval he had once felt for the fuhrer and the Nazi regime had disappeared in the snows of Stalingrad and the refuse dump where overworked surgeons had cut off and thrown away his gangrenous leg.

He looked again at the people who had chosen to follow him out of the city. They were uniformly filthy, ragged, thin, and terrified. He looked to where he could see the young woman, Elisabeth, and the boy. The boy looked intrigued by everything that was going on around him, while the girl looked a little better than earlier. Amazing what some broth, a small piece of bread, and the realization that you are not alone can do for a person’s health and sense of well-being.

She saw him watching her and ventured a shy smile. Von Schumann nodded at her and smiled back. She was young enough to be his daughter and pretty enough with her un-German black hair. The thought of his daughter sent a stab of pain through him. Where was she? Where was his wife, Hilda? He knew it would be a long time, if ever, before he would be able to find out. The last letter from them had been more than a year ago and it said they were heading for Hamburg. Hamburg had been destroyed by bombs and fire. Had they been consumed as well?

Elisabeth watched as von Schumann turned and hobbled away. For the first time in weeks she was not afraid. Instead of lurking and skulking in the cellars and tunnels of her apartment complex in Berlin, she was out in the air and actually doing something. Better, she had found people who would help her and Pauli survive this horror. Her gums didn’t hurt as much, nor did her joints. The women in the group had adopted the two of them, and a number of food scraps easily became a meal. For the first time since leaving Berlin she felt that she might just survive and that both she and Pauli might have a future.

Pauli stared at the departing von Schumann. “Is he our new papa?”

For the first time in weeks, Elisabeth laughed, causing others to turn and glance at her in case she had gone mad. “No, Pauli. He is not our new papa. He is a friend, a very good friend.”

Pauli nodded solemnly and prepared to digest that piece of information. He dug a piece of stale bread from his pocket and began chewing on it.

But what in God’s name was von Schumann talking about? The ever-present sounds of battle meant nothing to her. She’d presumed that the Germans were fighting the Russians. But had he said that the Americans and the Russians were fighting each other? Even though the Russians were animals, they were on the same side as the Americans. If they were indeed fighting each other, what did that mean to her feelings of safety?

Foreboding returned. “I think we might have gone from the frying pan into the fire,” she said.

Pauli looked puzzled. “Is somebody frying something?”

More than fifty people were jammed in the smoke-filled conference room in the West Wing of the White House, filling it well beyond capacity. When Steve Burke arrived along with General Marshall and a number of other army officers, Truman was already there. To his surprise, Marshall formally introduced Burke to Truman and reminded the president that he was the man who had received the message from the Russian.

“I didn’t have a chance to tell you before, Colonel, but it was a good job,” Truman said tersely and shook his hand. “Your quick actions may have saved a lot of our boys’ lives.”

Burke had found out a little earlier that he was being put in for a commendation, perhaps even a medal, for his actions that night. While pleased, he was a little embarrassed. All he had done was blunder into the event with Korzov, who, he had later been informed, had suddenly taken “ill” and was on his way back to the Soviet Union before the fighting started. The poor bastard’s treachery had likely been found out and he would be lucky to get a bullet in the head.

If Truman was upset by Marshall’s late arrival he gave no sign. He gestured people to their seats, and the truly important people along with Marshall sat at the main table along with Truman. Aides like Burke arrayed themselves behind their principals in inverse order according to rank. As junior in the army delegation, Burke found a plain wooden chair along the wall beside a navy commander who smiled politely. They kept their silence and would do so until called upon for information by their leaders. It was highly unlikely they would address the group.

Truman called the meeting to order. His face showed strain and anger. “General Marshall, please give us all an update on the military situation.”

Marshall pondered a sheaf of notes. Much of the information had been received only a few moments before he had left the Pentagon for the White House, and updates were still being called in by telephone.

“Mr. President, much of my report is going to be incomplete and dealing in generalities. Too much has happened too quickly for specifics and details. First, Miller Force was ambushed at two major points by large Soviet forces. The point of the column, a fairly small armored group of ours, was attacked by an overwhelming tank force. It took heavy casualties and was forced to retreat.”

Secretary of State Stettinius interrupted. “I have spoken with Ambassador Gromyko, and he says the Americans violated their space by entering Berlin, and that the Americans opened fire first on the Russians, and, therefore, that the Russian response was purely defensive.”

Marshall’s eyes turned sad. “According to reports from the handful of survivors, that may be correct. There is evidence that Colonel Brentwood’s force was still moving forward after being ordered to halt, and that it fired first in the mistaken belief that the approaching tanks were German and had shot at them. We now believe the Reds were shooting at another target.”

“Aw, Jesus,” Admiral King said.

Marshall continued. “For whatever it’s worth, Brentwood was killed in the fight, so we’ll never know his version of what happened.”

Otherwise, Marshall thought grimly, the overly ambitious SOB would be looking at a court-martial. Marshall had the nagging thought that Brentwood’s exceeding his orders had given the Reds an excuse to attack. If, of course, they had needed the excuse.

Truman nodded. “But he had been ordered to halt.”