“Does this mean we must cease?” Von Schumann sincerely hoped not. The Germans fully understood the weapons while the Yanks, willing learners, did not have the experience. Besides, using his soldiers would free Americans for other tasks.
“Naw. I was told that it was my responsibility, a command decision on my part, although I would have to answer for it at another time. I told them I sincerely hoped they would get my ass out of here so I could be called on the carpet for it, and that sort of shut them up. Just their way of admitting there’s nothing they can do to stop me. I think they agreed with me, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see Ike do something like it with the rest of the army.”
“Good.” Von Schumann meant it sincerely. Anything to defeat the Russians.
“But more food, Oberst? That, I’m afraid, will have to wait like Leland says. We have to build up a stockpile and hide it from possible harm.”
Again, von Schumann had to agree with the assessment. In the two months since they’d been trapped in Potsdam, he had been awed by the manner in which the Americans had dug and tunneled their way throughout the perimeter until it was a veritable honeycomb of underground passages. Other than the psychological need for sunshine, there was no need for them to be standing around outside right now.
There were now three lines of interconnected defenses, all supported by antitank guns, dug-in tanks, and tank destroyers, and protected artillery. Every possible target outside the perimeter had been calculated and mathematically zeroed in on. Sometimes the zeroing had been done with live ammo when the Reds gave them something to shoot at. Potsdam had truly become a citadel.
The American engineers had excavated large underground rooms for storage and for living. Although they were heavily reinforced, von Schumann had doubts whether some of them could stand up to repeated hits by Russian big guns.
All they could do was hold on and hope the Americans won the war. It was so frustrating knowing that events were so totally out of one’s control. Whether they were ultimately liberated, killed, or became prisoners depended on events taking place far to their west.
“General, one other thing. That correspondent wants to do a story on me. Do you think that is wise?”
Miller chuckled. “No, Oberst. Not at this time. Tell him to leave you alone. But I will have to give the little bastard credit for thinking about it. I may just solve the problem by having him shot and dropped into the Havel like I thought about doing when we caught the guy who was printing up the Commie literature.”
Even the dour Leland smiled at that. The Communist sympathizer with the mimeograph machine they’d caught had turned out to be a boy of fourteen. He’d been turned over to von Schumann, who had slapped him around until he cried and then convinced him he was lucky not to be shot. He was now working in the hospital dealing with people who’d been brutalized by the Red Army, and perhaps gaining a new perspective on life.
The correspondent, Walter Ames from Los Angeles, had successfully flown a two-seat Piper Cub all the way in from Hanover. He had stayed at treetop height to make himself invisible to the Russian planes as well as to fly over any trigger-happy infantry before they could aim and fire. With incredible panache, he’d had to land in Russian-occupied territory to refuel from five-gallon cans he’d carried on board his tiny craft. He’d also saved enough fuel to fly himself back. Or so he hoped. Much depended on where the American armies might be when he decided to leave.
Ames had also brought his own shortwave radio and generator, which he used to file his stories. This had necessitated the use of an American officer to function as his censor to ensure that he didn’t divulge anything important. As befitted the risks he had taken to get to Potsdam, Ames was pushy and aggressive.
Miller, however, could not argue with yet another leap in morale brought on by the presence of the reporter. He’d gone from unit to unit and taken down names and relayed information by radio about the soldiers to their loved ones. He was particularly insistent that the wounded be the first to send messages back home that they were okay, and Miller had quickly concurred. When the fighting first started, the wounded’s next of kin had received only a telegram stating that their loved one was wounded in action. Normally, this would have been followed up by further information, or even a letter or phone call from the soldier as he was evacuated to the rear. Because they were cut off this hadn’t happened, and Miller totally sympathized with the frustrations that the families must be feeling.
But now was not the time to let Ames tell the world that an ex-Nazi held a position of authority and influence in Potsdam.
“Leland,” Miller said, “I’ve changed my mind. Let Ames live for a few more days. Just keep him out of my hair.”
The move of Shaef’s field headquarters from Reims to nearby Compiegne had been necessitated by the fact that the Russians had located the first site and launched several very strong bombing attacks against it. When these had been beaten off, the Reds then tried sending in single planes, hoping they could sneak through and kill some Allied leaders. When one lone plane succeeded and a bomb fell on a mess hall and killed more than fifty men, wounding many others, including several generals, it was decided to move to a safer location.
Burke parked his jeep and immediately noticed the tension and bustle. There had always been a sense of urgency in the headquarters but this was different. Something had happened, and the tone of voices and the sense of grim urgency said it wasn’t good. He knew better than to approach Beetle Smith in a time of crisis, but he did want information as to what was happening.
Luck was with him as he recognized the disfigured British officer, Major Charles Godwin. He walked up to the man and grabbed his arm.
“Charles, what on earth’s going on? Everyone seems in such a panic.”
Godwin’s scarlike mouth opened in a smile. “Nothing so important as to make one do away with politeness. Now, how have you been? Met any interesting Russians lately?”
Burke shook his head in disbelief. “As a matter of fact I’ve been away for several days checking prisoners, and returned to find SHAEF moved and the new place in an uproar. The Russian POWs had nothing new to add.”
“Nothing?”
“Well, they did complain about supply shortages and they definitely feel the Russian air force has let them down, but nothing new of a political nature. The Reds still seem to be hoarding most of their elite soldiers for future battles.”
“Ah,” said Godwin, “not so much anymore.”
Burke felt a twinge of dread. “What do you mean?”
“What I mean and why I am here is because the Russians have gone and right royally buggered Montgomery. Were you familiar with the tactical situation regarding the British Army?”
“A little,” Burke admitted. “I know they are to the north of us.”
“Well, they still are, only not quite as many of us as before. As we were still holding on to Hamburg, British lines were rather extended and there were some calls from Ike to Monty that he should give up Hamburg before he got outflanked. At any rate, Monty declined and the Russians hit the point where your army connected with ours and rammed its way in between. It was a typical Russian attack. They swarmed and probed until they found a weak point, and then they blasted their way through. The Reds are now racing toward Bremen, and eight British divisions have been cut off and are retreating into German-held Holstein while your army pulls back to the south. Hamburg, of course, is belatedly being abandoned and Montgomery is having a snit, complaining about being abandoned by Ike.”
“Is it as bad as it sounds?”
“Perhaps worse. There are almost a hundred thousand British soldiers in jeopardy. We estimate that Rokossovsky, the Russian commander, has at least half a million against us. Thus, there is no chance that we will be able to go on the offensive and rescue them. Our soldiers will have to continue to retreat north through Doenitz’s rump republic of Germany.”