Gromyko rose, signaling an end to the short meeting. “Please convey my regards to Mr. Stettinius and Mr. Truman, and inform them of our terms. Also please inform them that we expect a favorable response in a very short time. We cannot permit the remnants of that annoying Miller Force to remain very long where they are. It is only our innate generosity that has allowed us to permit your planes to drop food and medical supplies to them without interference. Good day, Mr. Acheson, Miss Holt.”
Captain Mack Walters truly liked piloting the military version of the Piper Cub. Unlike most pilots who lusted after the chance to fly fighters, or, second choice, bombers, the thirty-year-old Walters was quite happy flying low and slow scouting missions. He was a good pilot, but knew his limitations. In a dogfight, his lack of lightning reflexes would surely get him killed, and he really was terrified at the thought of hauling around a B-17. He was firmly convinced that aircraft that large were not intended to fly. Besides, he would have had to share the plane with others, while his current little craft was usually his and his alone, even though there was room for one more person. This left him plenty of time for reflection and contemplation.
He did not think about the unique hazards of his job, that flying a slow, unarmed plane over enemy territory would have struck some people as utter insanity. Mack enjoyed it. He liked to joke that everyone from Texas was just a little crazy anyhow, and damn few people argued with him.
Beneath him, golden sunlight reflected off the Elbe. U.S. forces were on the western side of it and the Russians on the east. His assignment was simple-to see if he could figure out what the Russians were up to as they settled in on their side of the river after the debacle that had cost so many lives.
Top brass was clearly disconcerted by the numbers of Russian troops and tanks massing along the river. Just because they were there, however, didn’t mean they had intentions of doing anything but gather and wait. But wait for what?
Walters took a deep breath and turned his tiny plane eastward, flew across the river, and over the Russian area. After a moment, he exhaled loudly when it seemed that he was unnoticed. More than likely, they had seen him but thought he was too insignificant to bother with.
He climbed higher to get a better view of the unfolding panorama. “Hot Dog to Bun,” he said, cringing at the call sign his demented commanding officer had thought up. “Hot Dog to Bun. Come in, Bun.”
A tinny voice responded over the plane’s radio. “This is Bun. What do you see, Captain?”
“I see hundreds of tanks, about the same number of trucks and other vehicles, along with many, many infantry units. A lot more than I can count. It looks like still more are coming down the pike too.”
“Hot Dog, are they still parked?” the voice asked. Mack said they were. Bun sounded disappointed. “Okay, see if you can spot anything unusual.”
Walters signed off without sharing the opinion that the whole thing was fucking unusual. He was about to turn back to the Allied side of the Elbe when a strange shadow caught his eye. Something was camouflaged, and that something was rather extensive.
He dropped lower, until he was scarcely a couple hundred feet off the ground. “Shit,” he muttered in disbelief at the sight below. He got his camera and began taking pictures. He was so engrossed he didn’t see the tracers streaming toward him from the ground as he flew over his subject.
The shells hit his tiny plane and, fortunately for him, went through its thin exterior and on into the sky. Walters began to bank and juke the plane frantically to shake off the Russian gunners as he headed in the direction of the Elbe and safety.
The plane suddenly bucked hard and he knew it had taken a bad hit. He tried to shift in his seat and a shaft of almost unendurable pain raced from his leg to his brain, and he nearly blacked out. He looked down and saw raw red meat just above his left knee. One of the machine-gun shells had gone through his leg and exited through the roof of the cabin, where he could now see blue sky.
His body began to shake and his vision started to blur. He was going into shock and losing blood fast. He called Bun and told them what had happened and that he would try to set down on the west side of the Elbe. He explained what he had seen and that corroboration was in the camera. Bun, voice tense with real concern, wished him luck.
Suddenly, there was silence. The engine had cut out. He tried to restart it, but it refused. Mack looked down and saw he was across the river and theoretically safe. Now all he had to do was land the damn thing. There. He saw a field. Even better, there were a couple of jeeps not too far away. As he dropped to the ground, he saw people running to them and driving toward where he would land. Help was coming and he knew he would need it fast.
The plane touched the uneven ground, skipped along, and finally came to a bumpy, jolting stop that made him scream from the pain of his shattered leg as the Piper hit every lump and furrow. Then there was silence and a feeling of deep peace settled over him. Mack Walters was delighted. As his world faded, his last living thought was how strange it was that his leg had stopped bleeding and he didn’t hurt anymore.
• • •
Harry Truman was outraged and felt betrayed. He glowered at the handful of people in the Oval Office.
“Would someone tell me just how the hell the Chicago Tribune gets away with printing national secrets? I knew that the Tribune’s publisher, McCormick, hated Roosevelt, but why has he transferred that nastiness to me?”
“Because we’re Democrats,” muttered Attorney General Francis Biddle. “Colonel Robert McCormick hated FDR with an intensity that bordered on the pathological. As Roosevelt’s successor, you are the logical beneficiary of his wrath. To McCormick, anything that smacks of the New Deal is evil. As the Tribune’s publisher, he can print pretty well anything he wishes if he isn’t afraid of the consequences.”
“Can we deny it?” Truman asked. “We still have a number of things we’ve either lied about or withheld from the public for the good of the war effort.”
General Marshall answered, “I don’t see how.”
The original press releases had referred only to a tragic misunderstanding that had caused “some casualties” and that steps were under way to ensure that the situation did not repeat itself. It was true, but terribly incomplete. Somehow, the Tribune had gotten hold of the full story of the battle and had printed it. Now the uproar was sweeping the United States and Congress was raging for an answer.
“The Tribune says there are more than ten thousand casualties,” Biddle said. “That can’t be correct. Aren’t most of them just missing?”
Marshall patiently instructed him that soldiers who were missing in action were counted as casualties, and that many were Russian prisoners. Gromyko had said five thousand, and no one could dispute him. “Dear God,” moaned Biddle.
Truman laughed bitterly. He didn’t like Biddle. The man was a weakling and some said he was totally dominated by the FBI director, J. Edgar Hoover. What the devil had FDR been thinking when he appointed the man? When the situation got settled, one of his first changes would be to name a new attorney general.
Marshall appeared deep in thought. He was still mulling over the flash message he had gotten from Ike’s headquarters. The implications were ominous, but he was not ready to share them with the others in the room.
“Sir,” Marshall finally said, “like everyone else gathered here, I have no idea which way the Russians will jump. It is indeed possible that the apparent victory over Germany will result in everything they wish, but I somehow doubt it. As Mr. Stettinius reported on Acheson’s meeting this morning with Gromyko, I think they will hang on to our boys in Potsdam as well as those in their prison camps and try to wring concessions out of us. Worst possible alternative is that they will launch an all-out attack across the Elbe that will result in a full-scale war.”