If it hadn’t been for the fact that two of the three men he’d brought with him were now dead, he would have found humor in that all the Russians were doing with their barrage was to churn up the dirt and make it easier for the German farmers to plant their crops. He and the annoying PFC Holmes were likely the only Americans alive in the area, and Holmes’s radio was their only direct link to the outside world. Holmes was annoying because he thought he knew everything and spoke with a nasal New England accent.
Holmes had burrowed himself deep in a foxhole as Tolliver watched while the Russians completed the bridging of the Elbe with methodical and ominous efficiency. Soon the first bridge would be complete and the second, only a few yards downstream, would follow in a matter of minutes. Both spans were swarming with people connecting pontoons and bridge segments. In the moonlight, he could also see what appeared to be a long line of T34 tanks waiting patiently for the bridges to be done so they could rumble across.
Without fanfare and almost without Tolliver realizing it, the first bridge was finished. Then the second. “Holmes, tell them people back at battalion that tanks are starting to cross.”
He thought about telling them that he was going to leave in about thirty seconds, but decided not to mention it. He was afraid he might be ordered to stay and fight to the last man, which he did not think was a good idea.
An explosion shook both bridges as a bomb landed between them, causing a geyser of water to lift high in the air. “What the hell,” Tolliver yelled gleefully. Then he saw the faint shadow of a passing plane in the dark sky. He briefly caught a faint silhouette and thought it was a P-47 Thunderbolt.
An excited Holmes appeared beside him. “Holy shit, sir, we’re hitting back.” Russian antiaircraft tracer fire punctuated the statement. It didn’t appear that they were shooting at anything in particular. Nor were they hitting anything.
“Yeah,” said Tolliver. “Hey, don’t those things usually fly around in pairs?”
As Tolliver made the comment, the second Thunderbolt roared low overhead and dropped its bomb load. This time, it was close enough for the blast to separate the upstream bridge from its mooring. While they watched, fascinated, the bridge swung until it collided with its downstream brother. The jolt separated more sections and dumped a couple of tanks, along with about a score of men, into the water, where they disappeared.
Both men whooped as the planes returned again to strafe the Russian side of the river. Then they became aware of a new sound in the air-Russian planes had belatedly arrived to protect the vulnerable crossing site. In horror, they watched as one of the P-47s lost a wing and cartwheeled into the ground while the other flew away, its bombs and bullets expended.
“Holmes,” said Tolliver, “this has just gotten bigger than all of us. You think you can find where you hid that jeep yesterday?”
“Not a doubt in my military mind, sir.”
“Good,” said Tolliver. “We’ve seen more than enough Russian firepower. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
News of the Russian crossing of the Elbe sent everyone in the Potsdam perimeter to their battle stations in the middle of the night. Discipline was good, and only a few shots were fired at shadows and stray animals. When the dawn came, so too did relief. There was no sign of the Russian army. Patrols and listening posts reported that nearby Red tanks had not moved. This was quickly confirmed by scout planes that braved the battles going on around the Elbe to provide Potsdam with the needed information regarding nearby Soviet locations.
Thus, by midmorning life in Potsdam had returned to a semblance of normality. The soldiers were told to stand down and get some rest, and food was prepared. For Jack Logan, it meant that he could finally visit the hospital where Lieutenant Singer was convalescing.
On arrival, Logan was appalled by the number of wounded in the makeshift hospital in the palace of Sanssouci, once used by the Kaiser. He really hadn’t known what to expect and he thought he had been steeled for the worst. But he had not been prepared for the sight of hundreds of men lying in rows of beds amid remnants of baroque splendor. Many of the wounded were heavily bandaged, and many were also moaning and crying in pain. It was the sounds of pain that got him, along with the smell of antiseptic and the primal scent of fear. The sounds were a low chorus of agony while medics and doctors moved among them. It was hard to believe that the battle that had caused the majority of the wounds had been days ago.
With good directions from a harried medic, he found Singer. The once plump lieutenant was a sallow-cheeked parody of himself. Logan tried not to stare at the heavily bandaged shoulder and short stump, which was all that remained of Singer’s left arm.
With some effort, Singer greeted him. “Good to see you, Jack, and congratulations. You’ll make a great officer. Even better than me.”
Logan smiled. “I see news travels fast around here.”
“Captain Dimitri came by and told me yesterday. Besides,” he chided, “your stripes have been removed from your sleeve and, unless I’ve gone blind as well, that’s a dark bar on your helmet.”
“Well, thanks again. Now how the hell are you doing, Lieutenant?”
“My name’s David. You can call me that since we are all brother officers and allegedly gentlemen. I’d like that, Jack.”
“I would too,” said Logan and found he meant it. “Now, how the hell are you, David?”
Singer fought back a tear but gave in to a grimace from the pain. “About as well as a one-armed Jewish lieutenant could be. It hurts, Jack, and not just the physical part. They give me morphine and other stuff so that I can deal with that. It hurts inside me, inside my mind. I don’t want to be a cripple, someone kids stare at on the street. I don’t want Marsha to be married to a cripple, either. And don’t give me that bullshit about what great artificial arms they make nowadays or I’ll get one and give you the finger with it.”
Logan agreed that bullshit wouldn’t do. Instead, he said sadly, “Dave, when this is over there are going to be a lot of people without arms and legs in America. You won’t stand out from the crowd that much at all. Can you walk yet?”
“No, but the medics think I should try real soon.”
“Well, when you can, David,” he said with more firmness than he intended, “why don’t you walk your ass down these aisles and see people who really are crippled. Yeah, you’ve been hurt, but you can still see, hear, talk, walk, and even pick things up with your remaining hand. Like your own food, for instance. And I’ll bet you can even get a hard-on if you worked at it.”
Singer was silent for a moment. “Are you telling me I’m feeling sorry for myself?”
“Not really. You’ve gotten a really shitty wound, and there’s no kidding about it. But it could have been worse, lots worse.” Maybe, Logan thought, the worse one would be his own. After all this time, he’d barely been scratched.
Singer sighed and seemed to relax slightly. “You’re right, I guess. I can hear people crying and moaning all day, and sometimes I do it too.”
“Were you gonna make the army a career?”
“Hell, no. I’m not that stupid.”
“Aw shit, Dave, don’t tell me you were gonna be a surgeon.”
Singer managed a grin. “A paperhanger, and fuck you too, Lieutenant Logan. Actually, I’m going to be an accountant, and I guess I can juggle books with one hand. And that reminds me, along with everything else I got that still works, there’s one little thing that Marsha was very, very fond of, and you’re right, it checked in this morning, loud and clear.”