Chuikov would rip his ass and possibly relieve him of command. It wouldn’t matter that he had warned that drunken asshole Russian colonel in charge of the tanks that he was straying too close to the Americans. No, it would only matter that he, an Armenian, had let a Russian armored column be destroyed.
Bazarian had to do something and do it quickly in order to save his career, and possibly his life. He turned to an orderly and told him to get his division commanders and his armored brigade commander to his headquarters for a council of war. The Americans had lived in solitude and luxury for long enough. He would attack them and make them pay. No more pinpricks like a Katyusha rocket barrage, or a few artillery shells. No, he would launch an attack. It would take a few days to move and gather and position his men, particularly the brigade he had on the other side of the Havel, but it could be done. Then the Americans would pay.
A FEW MILES away, the American general Chris Miller absently sucked on his empty pipe. He was out of tobacco. He continued to receive reports of the damage his howitzers were inflicting on the Russian column. He hadn’t wanted to open fire on the Russian tanks, but quickly decided he had no choice. A radio message had told him that the air force was up to its ass in alligators and could not attack the column. He could not let it go by unscathed and cause American deaths in the future. It was also good for morale to strike back and cause such heavy damage.
“Cease firing,” he ordered.
The major of artillery was puzzled. “But, sir, the Reds are still firing back at us.”
“I know, but they’re not hitting anything. Besides, we don’t exactly have a lifetime supply of ammunition in here, now do we?”
Chagrined, the major agreed and relayed the order. The airdrops had been continuing, but now on an irregular, almost sporadic basis.
Miller sighed and wished someone had thought to air drop some tobacco. He hated poking among the enlisted men who smoked pipes and borrowing it, but he would and they would cheerfully lend it. He had a lot to think about and he needed the peace of mind the smoke from a pipe gave him.
“Leland.”
“Yes, sir,” the captain answered.
“Tell that kraut, von Schumann, that I want to talk with him.”
Wolfgang von Schumann saw Elisabeth and the little boy strolling in the sunshine. She had told him of her concerns that Pauli would never be able to get over his fear of the noise the guns made. Who could? he had answered. She said she wondered if he would quiver and shake every time a thunderstorm rumbled. She had said, harshly, would there ever be a time when they could marvel at the sound of nature and not of the guns of man?
Von Schumann was limping by in the company of an American officer when he saw her. “What are you thinking of, little girl, a hot meal or your American officer?”
Elisabeth smiled and stuck out her tongue at him, making von Schumann laugh. He knew that the girl-he had a hard time thinking of her as a young woman-would have been incapable of such an impudent act in response to his teasing only a short while earlier. As to the American officer, he had been by only moments before to see whether she was safe from the Soviet barrage, and then literally ran back to his unit. Von Schumann had caught the look on both their faces on learning they were all right. He had seen them together several other times and sometimes envied them their youth, their innocence, and, God willing, their future.
“Amazing. All that shelling and they accomplished so little?” said von Schumann.
Leland agreed. “In most cases, all they did was rearrange some earlier ruins and knock down some empty buildings. Casualties were extremely light.”
Unless you happened to be one of those casualties, von Schumann always thought on hearing the phrase.
On arrival at headquarters, he was ushered immediately into Miller’s office. As in prior instances, there were no other American officers present. This helped Miller continue the fiction that he was not receiving any official help from a German.
Miller gestured von Schumann to a seat. “Using your artificial leg today, I see.”
Von Schumann grinned. “The crutch was a shameless cry for sympathy. It didn’t work.”
“I’m not surprised. No one considers you helpless. You don’t know where there’s any pipe tobacco, do you?” As leader of the civilian population, von Schumann had made a number of interesting contacts and had turned up some surprising creature-comfort articles.
“Not offhand, but I’ll look into it.”
“Good. Now what do you think of what just happened? What was this Bazarian creature trying to prove?”
Leland had informed von Schumann of the destruction of the Russian tank column. The former German colonel paused before responding. “I think you have made a mortal enemy of the man who commands the Russians. Not that you had a choice, of course. You had to bombard those tanks. To have done otherwise would have been a betrayal of your oath as an officer.”
“So what will he do? Attack us?”
Von Schumann nodded. “He doesn’t have a choice. You have disgraced him, and the punishment for disgrace in the Soviet Union is loss of command at best, and he could be shot.” Von Schumann stretched out his artificial leg. He still had difficulty sitting comfortably. “But you do have some advantages.”
Miller smiled. That was why he had invited the German. It was common knowledge that some of his people were skillful at questioning new arrivals. They had also ferreted out a couple of attempts by the Russian commander to infiltrate his own people into the Potsdam area. The Russians had been imprisoned, while the German turncoats had quietly disappeared, likely facedown into the Havel and now floating downstream.
“Herr Oberst,” Miller said, using von Schumann’s rank in the Wehrmacht. It was equivalent to colonel. “Please tell me of those advantages.”
The German responded, speaking in a slow voice. “You know you are confronted by at least three rifle divisions. These are very ordinary units, perhaps even less so. At full strength they would each have just under ten thousand men. I think we can assume that the war has worn them down and that they are not quite at full strength. More important, they are not Russians. They are a mixed lot from the southern part of the Soviet Union and are commanded by an Armenian, Bazarian. This means they are neither as well trained nor as well equipped as an equivalent Russian unit would be. You should also know that they are likely the shit soldiers who have been plundering and defiling Germany. The Russians are tough men, but many of those from non-Russian areas of the Soviet empire are barbarians and animals. Sometimes the Russians refer to those types of soldiers as ‘black-asses.’ It is equivalent to your referring to a Negro as a nigger.”
Miller didn’t quite agree with that comparison but said nothing. He toyed with his pipe. “What about their tanks, their artillery?”
Von Schumann chuckled. “They have more tanks than you, but many of theirs are the older, lighter models, and not the T34s or larger Stalins we have learned to fear. As to artillery, they have a number of 122-millimeter guns and you have 105s and a handful of 155s; it’s almost a trade-off. They have larger-caliber mortars, but the overall advantage belongs to you since you are on the defensive-at least until they bring in reinforcements and assuming you don’t throw away your advantages. They may be shit soldiers, but they can kill very nicely if you let them. If led properly, they may just fight like the animals they are. Like I said, this Russian force surrounding you is second echelon. Their general may or may not be.”
Miller digested the information. He had the remnants of one armored division in Potsdam, not even a third of its strength. Far too many had been destroyed or were missing after the initial onslaught.
Von Schumann continued. “You’ve had a major problem sending out patrols, since few of your men speak Russian or, for that matter, German. With your permission, I will send out some of my men to find out the exact locations of their artillery and their tanks. To date I have been only passively acquiring information from refugees.”