Zhukov paled, but he knew better than to argue. His armies were exhausted, had suffered heavy casualties, were short of ammunition, and their tanks and trucks desperately needed maintenance. Food was not a serious problem. They could simply take from the Germans, and nobody would care if they starved as a result. However, a T34 could not move without diesel nor could it shoot without ammunition. Still, he would carry out his orders.
Stalin stood and paced the room. “I understand your concerns, comrade, but the disarray of our forces will be more than matched by the confusion and panic within the American and British armies. The capitalists are weak. They will crumble under your onslaught.”
“Yes, Comrade Stalin.”
“Excellent. Now for the command arrangements. My day as overall commander is done. General Zhukov, you will assume control of the entire western front.”
Zhukov blinked in surprise and Stalin continued. “You are doubtless wondering why the sense of urgency. I know you have heard the rumors that the Allies will send their armies home or to Japan once the war against the Hitlerites is over, and, if true, the rest of Germany could be ours for the taking anytime we wished. Is this not correct?” Zhukov nodded like a student listening to a particularly stern lecturer.
Stalin folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “I can only say that there are forces and events emerging that could change everything. The opportunity for success is now. If we wait, the opportunity will surely be lost.”
After Zhukov left, Stalin was alone in his office. He pulled the one-page intelligence summary from the center drawer of his desk and read it for the tenth time. Events at a place called Alamogordo in New Mexico were at a critical stage, but success was more than probable. Indeed, it was highly likely. Stalin chuckled slightly when he recalled how he had told Zhukov of “forces emerging.” If only his generals had any idea of what was emerging from that base in New Mexico.
CHAPTER 7
All in all, Major General Christopher Miller was not displeased by what he saw when he toured the defensive perimeter in his jeep. Getting out and checking things was a lot better than staying in the old German imperial barracks and staring at maps. It was also good for the men to see that at least one general had survived the ambush. His aide, Captain Roy Leland, hadn’t been thrilled, as there had been sporadic sniper fire from either the Russians or die-hard Nazis in the area, but he had been overruled.
“Not bad,” Miller said, “not bad at all.”
The soldiers within the perimeter had been reorganized where necessary and now had coherent chains of command. They had spent their time digging furiously in anticipation of further assaults, and the perimeter now bristled with bunkers and trenches. Miller could wish for more barbed wire and a greater number of tank traps, but they would come in time. If, he thought ruefully, the fucking Commies gave him some time. They had been quiet for a while but that was no guarantee the solitude would continue.
An area near the river had been cleared and an almost continuous stream of C-47s flew overhead and parachuted supplies in low-level drops. It had taken a couple of tries, but they had stopped dropping their loads in the river. Again, the Reds had made no effort to stop the resupply efforts. It was puzzling. It was as if they didn’t care.
Miller voiced his thoughts to his aide. “Roy, why the hell are the Russians so quiet? I mean, they jumped us, chewed the shit out of us, and now are leaving us alone? It doesn’t make sense.”
Leland, who was the soul of discretion and very used to being a sounding board for Miller’s thoughts, shrugged. “In the grand scheme of things, sir, I just don’t think we are all that important to them anymore.”
Miller nodded. “That’s what I feel, too. Battling us served a purpose and now that purpose is over. We can’t advance and we can’t retreat. All we can do is sit here and wait for them to do something. In the meantime, we just grow old.”
“Well, sir, we will be prepared for them this time.”
“Yep,” Miller said without qualifying the response. He knew that he was vastly outnumbered by the Russians. If they should decide to turn against him in all their fury, his newly built defenses would be overrun in little time. He understood that he and his men were pawns in a larger game being played out in Moscow and Washington. It was a frustrating and helpless feeling.
“General Miller?”
They wheeled at the sound of the new and accented voice. With both men deep in their thoughts, a German civilian had managed to walk right up to them. Or limp up, as the man was on a crutch and had only one leg. The jeep’s driver reached for his carbine and Leland pulled his pistol. The civilian balanced himself on his crutch and held out his hands.
“Gentlemen, I have no weapons.”
“Then what the hell do you want?” snapped Leland.
“My name is Wolfgang von Schumann and I would like to talk to the general. I have several questions and some few suggestions in which I might be of assistance to you.”
“Where’d you lose the leg?” Miller asked. From his bearing, he had deduced that the man was likely a German officer.
“Stalingrad.”
“You’re a Nazi?” Miller continued.
“Yes. At least I was.”
Miller laughed grimly and Leland joined in. “Jesus Christ,” said Miller, “I knew there had to be at least one of you in Germany. Everybody we talk to says that they never were Nazis although all of their neighbors were. At least you’re somewhat of an honest man. Now, what were your questions?”
Wolfgang gestured behind him, where a number of disheveled civilians were gathered, watching him talk to the American general.
“Somehow, General Miller, I have become the leader of several hundred refugees, with more gathering by me each day. I help them collect and distribute food and clothing, and try to ensure that they have shelter until they can somehow find their way to their homes. I might add that not all the refugees are Germans. Some are forced laborers, while others are slave laborers from other countries who have been freed as a result of the upheavals around us. I even have a number of Jews who were in concentration camps and have managed to escape in the chaos.”
“Great,” Miller said. “I am sincerely glad that someone is taking care of them. Now, what was your question?”
“Since we are in your area of control and unable to leave, we will shortly be without resources. When that time comes, I have a simple question-will you feed us?”
Miller blinked. “Shit. What would happen if I asked you to leave?” he asked, thinking of the additional strain the growing number of refugees would put on his limited resources. And there had to be many more than the few hundred von Schumann was referring to.
Von Schumann gestured with his hands. “It would be the same as shooting us. In fact, shooting us would be a great favor. The Russians would kill every one of us, every man, woman, and child, regardless of age. The men might die quickly, but the women’s deaths would be lingering and horrible. And God only knows what they would do to the children.”
Miller was not surprised. He had been hearing stories of unbelievable atrocities committed by the Russians as reprisal for the barbarities inflicted upon their people by the Nazis. He had no love for the Germans, but neither did he want to be responsible for the deaths of civilians. Not directly, at least.
“All right,” he said grudgingly, “your people can stay and I will do my best to get you enough food and medical supplies. But your people get theirs after my boys go first.”
Even as he said it, Miller knew it was an empty statement. He had already seen GIs giving food to hungry German children, and the inevitable bartering system would start up shortly. He would have to issue a nonfraternization order and hope his troops paid at least some attention to it. A realist, he knew they probably wouldn’t.