Another Russian tank burst into flames. It had taken a direct hit on its side from a protected tank destroyer. More American tanks fired and another Russian tank shuddered. Smoke commenced to pour from it. The Russian tanks lifted their fire from the bunkers and sought out the dug-in and well-hidden M10s and the Shermans that were now joining in the battle. The Red Army tanks tried to snake their way between the ditches, which again exposed their more vulnerable flanks to disabling fire from U.S. antitank guns, and a couple more were halted by damaged treads.
Mortars, machine guns, and rifle fire continued to rake and slaughter the Red infantry while the mines killed still more. The Russians, unable to climb through the wire, continued to pour into the ditch, and Logan could see the tips of ladders appearing on the American side.
The Russian soldiers scaled the ladders and, although numbers of them were shot and dropped back into the pit, the survivors ran the few yards toward the bunkers, wildly hip-firing submachine guns as they came. The sheer volume of rifle fire caused bullets to find their way through the slits, and Logan heard the sound of screams beside him. He wanted to look but there wasn’t time.
A man’s face appeared in front of the slit. The Russian looked puzzled, almost curious. Logan fired and it disappeared in a spray of red and gray. Explosions told him that American artillery was landing directly in front of him. Someone, most likely Dimitri, had called down fire almost on their own position.
The deafening concussions shook and caused him to drop to his knees. There were more screams inside the bunker but they seemed to him to be coming from another world.
Then there was silence. At first they didn’t believe it. Jack recovered quickly and ordered the men back to the firing slits. Logan looked out and saw the world outside blanketed with the bodies of Russian soldiers. Some of them were still moving and, as his hearing improved, he could hear their moans. In the distance, he could see the remainder of the Russian infantry running back through the gaps in the shrubs. There were damn few tanks with them. He could see at least a dozen burning hulks from his bunker, and one had its turret ripped off as if it had been a toy.
With the Russians no longer an immediate threat, Logan checked for casualties-he had one dead and one wounded in this bunker. A check of his platoon’s other two bunkers showed four wounded. They had won the fight but he had lost six men. One or two of the wounded might return in a couple of weeks, but the platoon had paid a price.
Logan opened the bunker’s rear entrance and stepped cautiously outside and into the smoke-filled air. The other bunkers had informed him there were no Russians hiding on his roof, so he felt reasonably safe. He took a couple of men and checked the dead lying around him. He found the man he had shot in the face. The back of his skull had been blown out and his brains were all over the ground.
Cautiously, they walked to the edge of the ditch and pointed their rifles down. Who knew what might be waiting there. The bottom of the ditch was covered with dead and badly wounded Russians.
“Jesus,” said First Sergeant Krenski, “how many of them did we get?”
There was the sound of vomiting nearby as one of his men was overcome by the scene. “I dunno,” Logan mumbled, stunned by the sight. “It looks like it could be hundreds of them right here alone.”
Krenski squatted by the side of the ditch. He was exhausted, and Logan realized he was as well. “Lieutenant, you don’t think we’ll have to do this again, do you?”
Logan shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, top, but I just wonder who has to clean up this mess.”
• • •
J OSEF S TALIN was nervous and agitated, a situation that immediately transferred itself to Molotov and Beria. Despite their exalted status in the Soviet hierarchy, they lived their daily lives in terror.
“France,” said Stalin. “France is foiling us. They must cease.”
Molotov nodded. He was the foreign secretary, so the problem Stalin perceived with France would be his to resolve. He did not glance at Beria, who would be relieved that they had not been summoned on a matter of national security, his area. The situation with the unfaithful Korzov had been bad enough.
Molotov knew that Stalin was frustrated by the slow progress against the Americans and British. It had been almost two weeks since the assault across the Elbe, and there was not much to show for it in the way of territorial gains.
Yet, Molotov thought, why should Stalin be surprised? The Allies were strong and would not fold immediately. They would have to be crushed. Zhukov had protested, although rather tamely it now seemed, that the Red armies needed time to reorganize, rest, and refit after capturing Berlin and destroying the remnants of the German armies facing them. They had not been given time to recover, and now they were paying the price for it.
Worse, Molotov was aware of rumors that the Red Army had paid more heavily in men and material in the destruction of the Germans in Berlin than they had expected. Zhukov was already making plans for troops to be moved from the other, smaller fronts to reinforce his assaults. It was not the best of signs.
Then too, Stalin had been outraged by the armistice between the Allies and Germany. He was not in a mood to distinguish between those Germans who had been Nazis and those who had disavowed them. He saw the agreement as a further betrayal by Truman and Churchill.
Stalin stood and began to pace, an act that Molotov found even more frightening. It meant that his leader was close to losing control.
“France is the weak link in the Allied front,” Stalin said. “France is living in the past with delusions of grandeur, and this buffoon de Gaulle is the worst of the lot. Yet France does hold a key that can open up Europe to Zhukov.”
Stalin jabbed at the tobacco in his pipe with a dead match and looked at the two men. “Comrade Molotov, you will contact de Gaulle and very bluntly inform him that we require France to leave the war. While the French have only a few divisions available to fight us, American and British supplies are coming through the French ports. Zhukov is correct in that Antwerp must be taken, but we can further damage the Allied effort by driving France into a separate peace with us.”
Molotov understood. “We can make contact rather quickly, in a day or two at worst, but, Comrade Stalin, I have a concern.”
“And what is that?”
“De Gaulle, comrade, is a most antagonistic and prickly sort of person. A truly obnoxious ultranationalist Frenchman. He is likely to see a slight or an insult in any attempt by us to disengage him from those countries that helped liberate his beloved France from the Nazis. He has already managed to be offended by the actions of the Americans and the British, who are supposed to be his allies.”
Stalin lit his pipe and puffed on it. “Then remind him that his enemies, those Nazis who occupied and enslaved his country, are now, thanks to Churchill and Truman, his newest allies. Ask him how he likes that. I do not think he does very much, do you?”
“No,” Molotov answered, and Beria nodded.
Stalin chuckled. “And if that does not work, do not for a moment be subtle. Remind him that, with or without his help, the Soviet Union will win this war against the capitalists and the fascists. All he can do is prolong or shorten the inevitable. If he prolongs it, he will make himself and France our sworn enemy. If he closes the ports and shortens the war, he will have proven that he and France can be our friends. The choice will be his. If he does not close the ports, then he will, inevitably, have an angry Russian army crossing his border with what had been Germany. De Gaulle can rest assured that we will exact our revenge, our pound of flesh, for his intransigence. Tell him we will devastate Paris and its people as we did Berlin.” He chuckled at the thought.