Logan took them, his mind awhirl. “But what about Sergeant Krenski. He’s the most senior NCO in the company.”
“Don’t worry about Krenski, Sergeant-I mean Lieutenant Logan-I’ve taken care of him.”
“Captain, I don’t understand. With all of Krenski’s experience, he’d be a great officer.”
“Disagree, Jack. He’s a great NCO. He’d be a shitty officer. He’s not officer material.”
Logan was puzzled. “Can I ask why? What you said almost sounds elitist, and I know you’re not that way.” Dimitri had commented several times on the fact that his parents were poor immigrants from Greece and how hard they had worked to achieve what they felt was success.
Dimitri chuckled. “I’m disappointed in you, Jack. You’ve been working with the man for months and you really don’t know a thing about him. Tell me, what’s the first thing he does when he gets a written order?”
“Uh, he usually fumbles for his reading glasses, which he can never find. He lost them a while ago, so he gives the papers to someone else to read for him.” Logan paused as the truth dawned. “Oh shit, he can’t read, can he?”
“Bingo,” said the captain. “Krenski’s thirty years old and has been in the army since he lied his way in at sixteen. He can read a little, very damn little, but he’s pretty much illiterate. That, my new lieutenant, is why he will not take over the platoon. In case you’re curious, he came to me when he thought I might promote him and told me his story. Bottom line, the man was terrified we’d make him an officer. He’ll be delighted that you got it instead, and he can stay as my senior NCO.”
Logan chuckled. “I’ll keep his secret.”
“Good, now let’s walk over to your platoon so I can formally introduce you in case they think you’re lying about the promotion.”
When the two men entered Logan’s bunker, they were surprised to find the entire platoon assembled.
“I took the liberty, Captain,” said a grinning Sergeant Krenski. “We’re gonna have a little party to celebrate, if you don’t mind, sir. Some of the guys, uh, managed to find and liberate some schnapps that might have otherwise fallen into the wrong hands. It would be an awful thing to have abused.”
In his headquarters, Major General Miller listened to the reports in icy fury. The Russians had begun shelling their positions. The barrage wasn’t all that heavy, but the unofficial truce was obviously over.
“Sir,” said Leland, “the artillery wants to fire back.”
“At what?” snapped Miller. “Do we know precisely where those shells are coming from?”
As he said that, a heavy one landed a hundred yards from where they were dug in and shook dirt from the roof. Miller was puzzled. Yes, the Reds were firing at them, but the effort seemed to be directed at nothing in particular. It was just a number of pieces of artillery lobbing shells into the perimeter without any direction or purpose at all. It didn’t make sense.
Captain Leland dusted himself off. “No, sir, we don’t really know where their batteries are. We can do some guessing and start shooting back, but God knows if we’ll hit anything.”
“Then hold fire,” Miller said. “No point in wasting ammunition and giving away the location of our own guns.” That, he thought wryly, presumed the Commies hadn’t already figured that out.
The situation was frustrating as well as puzzling. Despite the barrage, he really didn’t feel that his defenses were in any danger. Lookouts could see no troops or tanks moving up for an assault. It was as if a bunch of drunks had taken control of the Russian artillery and were having a good time.
“Any report on casualties?” Miller asked, and he was assured that all units were reporting nothing in the way of killed and only a few wounded. Of course, they all were dug in and hunkered down and only a direct hit would cause damage. He was told that a number of civilians had been killed and wounded, and he regretted not pushing them harder to dig their own shelters. The one-legged German, von Schumann, and his people were probably okay. Miller recognized the kraut as a survivor.
After a while, the firing ceased. “Now what the hell was that all about?” Miller wondered out loud.
“General,” called a sergeant with a radio headset over his ears. “We’re getting something from Ninth Army. Looks like the Nazis have just announced that Hitler is dead, committed suicide in his bunker in Berlin, and that some guy whose name sounds like Donuts is now in charge of Krautland.”
“Doenitz,” corrected Miller, stifling a smile. “He’s an admiral in their navy.”
Good God, he thought, could the shelling have been nothing more than a bunch of drunken Russians celebrating? The Commies might have gotten the news first, and God knew they had so much more reason to celebrate Hitler’s death. What did it mean for their situation in Potsdam? With Hitler out of the way, did it mean an end to the war with Germany? But did it mean the start of a new one with Russia?
General Miller checked the calendar on the wall and noted the date. It was April 30, 1945. What on earth was going to happen now?
Miller put on his helmet and stepped outside with a puzzled Captain Leland close behind. He decided he needed a dose of reality so he walked over to a nearby squad bunker and ducked in.
“ Ten-hut!” Leland ordered.
“Carry on,” Miller said. This was more like a normal army. However, it was definitely against regulations for enlisted men and officers to be drinking together. Damn, it was something else he would have to ignore.
“Gentlemen,” Miller said, “I have just heard that one Sergeant Logan has been promoted to lieutenant. I’ve also heard that Hitler is dead and I don’t know which is more important. If the rumor is true it’s great news. However, if Logan’s been promoted, then this army is doomed and we should all plan to surrender right now.”
There was stunned silence followed by hoots of laughter. “Congratulations, Lieutenant,” Miller said, and the two men shook hands. “The lieutenant and I go back a ways. When I first got to England, Mr. Logan was a mere corporal and got dragooned into driving for me. I knew he was officer material the first time he got behind the wheel and we nearly ran into an oncoming truck.”
“Sir, it wasn’t my fault,” Logan answered with a smile. The schnapps was very relaxing. Hitler was dead and he’d been promoted. Not a bad day at all. “Nobody told me those crazy Brits drove on the wrong side of the road.”
“Yes, but after two weeks you still hadn’t figured it out and you damn near got me killed a half-dozen times more. And besides, they think we’re the ones who are nuts for driving on the right.”
Miller eyed a half-full bottle of schnapps standing proudly on an empty ammo carton. Sergeant Krenski tentatively handed him a glass. Miller poured a decent portion and held up the glass. “Good luck, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And good luck to your men. They’re going to need it.”
Again, more good-natured hoots. Miller knew it was time to leave. He’d had his fun, and generals have a way of suffocating parties. If anyone asked whether he’d seen officers and enlisted men drinking together, he’d simply say that he’d seen them drinking separately but in the same room. Sometimes regulations are meant to be ignored.
He and Leland stepped outside into the bright sunlight. Logan followed them. “Who got the dollar?” Miller asked.
“The first sergeant, sir,” said Logan. Traditionally, the first person who salutes a brand-new second lieutenant got a dollar from him. “But I think he cheated.”
Miller laughed and walked away. Logan took in his new domain, which consisted of three bunkers in a couple of ruined buildings. It was not a magnificent kingdom. “Officer and a gentleman” had a nice ring to it, but what it really meant was additional responsibility and more work. Instead of a squad, he had a platoon of more than thirty men. He had to admit, though, he wasn’t displeased. He’d been chafing under the realization that he was capable of being more than an enlisted man, even a sergeant. A damn shame it had to come as a result of Singer’s destroyed arm.