Four known Communists were buried in their number to take up a position at the Kreuzberg Town Hall. At the foot of the steps they were spotted by a member of an Order Company.
Four American Constabulary walked quietly alongside each, snapped on handcuffs, and walked them away quickly and efficiently toward a holding station. One of the Communists began to protest. The soldier locked his arm with a billy club and pressured so that it would break. The Communist became quiet.
Blessing picked up the microphone in the jeep. “This is Sportsfisher One calling all piers. The tide is coming in. How is fishing in your area?”
“Hello Sportsfisher One, this is Redondo,” the squad at Moritz Platz subway radioed back. “One small sand shark.”
“Sportsfisher One, this is Venice Pier,” Koch Strasse detachment called, “the tide is coming in fast but no fish yet.”
‘This is Long Beach Pier calling Sportsfisher One,” called the key complex of Anhalter Banhof, with its numerous exchange points and masses of movement in proximity to the Russian Sector. “We picked up two sand sharks, three blues of about sixty pounds, and a man-eater.”
“This is Sportsfisher One calling Long Beach. Are they hitting hard?”
“This is Long Beach. No, they’re kind of sluggish. We reeled them in easy.”
The pattern was beginning to open. Blessing listened to the British and French frequencies again. All along the line Communist leaders were getting picked up as they departed the trains.
“This is Santa Monica Pier,” called Grozgorschen Strasse elevated. “Couple of big blues hanging around right here. I think they’re waiting for the school of mackerel.”
Bless returned to his command post at Kreuzberg and phoned over a direct line to Colonel Parrott at Tempelhof. In the first fifty minutes they had snagged some seventy Communist agitators.
At Potsdamer Platz, the key exchange point, the first school of mackerel, an Action Squad, was bagged.
A Joint Command in the British Sector assessed the information. By 0620 three hundred known agitators and Action Squad members with no explainable business in the Western Sectors had been spotted and swept up in quick, sure movement.
At 0702, two railcars containing the largest load yet, three hundred Action Squad people, moved for the destination of Beussels Strasse elevated, where they were to disperse for the joint targets of the power plant, the Plötzensee Prison, and the West Harbor. A tip-off came ahead of them and they walked off the train into a mixed company of French and British soldiers with fixed bayonets.
By this time the Russian monitors smelled a Western trap and this was confirmed by the fact that none of their leaders had reported back to Putsch headquarters. And then a frantic call came to Schatz by one Communist who had slipped the Western net after seeing his comrades rounded up.
“They were waiting for us!”
A nausea-wracked, trembling Adolph Schatz phoned Soviet Headquarters and cried, “We have been betrayed!”
Trepovitch tried to head off the disaster of sending more people in. At this rate the West could deplete their loyal core of Communist strength in an hour and it would take weeks, if not months, to build up for another try. He branded Schatz as an incompetent German lout, called off the attempt, and shouted that he was surrounded by spies.
Brigadier General Neal Hazzard entered the mess hall of the Staff NCO Club and the 250 officers and men came to attention. He asked them to be seated and told the guard to shut the door.
“I’ll get right to the point,” Hazzard said. “Fifty of you people have requested to evacuate your families. I have asked the rest of you here so as not to identify and embarrass the others. Here’s the score. When General Hansen left for Washington we told him we’d be here when he got back.
“By that I mean the United States would be in Berlin. In this garrison, the United States of America particularly means our wives and children. For the next two weeks no request for transportation out of Berlin will be acted upon ... as my old friend Trepovitch would say ... for technical reasons.”
A murmur of puzzlement greeted his terse announcement.
“To walk out of here with our tails between our legs would be giving aid and comfort to the enemy and would make a spectacle of our country. This garrison stays ... men ... women ... children.”
Chapter Five
THE MEETING OF THE NATIONAL Security Council was going badly against General Hansen. The President, for the most part, listened to the divergent arguments, interrupting only now and then for a sharp question.
The room housed a glitter of silver stars and braid of admirals and their banks of ribbons to attest to bravery. These were the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Secretary of Defense was there; the Secretary of State was there; the Secretary of the Treasury was there with the Vice President and the ambassador to the Kremlin. Behind them sat their experts and planners.
The forces seeking accommodation, settlement, compromise, appeasement had built an insurmountable case. The State Department had treated the Berlin blockade as an accomplished Soviet victory and sought ways to get off the hook with the least loss of face.
“The B marks have to be withdrawn from Berlin.”
“Throw the matter open to the United Nations while attempting to make a direct political settlement with the Russians.”
Practical men from the Pentagon with slide rules and charts had their turn.
“Berlin is dead weight. The city not only has to import food, but it has to import raw material to keep its industrial complex functioning. As a former national capital the city has tens of thousands of former government employees with no new means of support. Berlin has 300,000 pensioners.”
“Berlin is still in ruin.”
“Berlin cannot be saved.”
“Mr. President. I do not believe anyone can make a determination of how long we would have to be committed. General Hansen speaks in terms of forty-five to sixty days, but suppose it has to go longer. It could well run into months.”
“We have been unable to draw up a cost estimate, but it will run millions a day. The Soviet Union might deliberately keep the blockade going in an effort to bankrupt our economy.”
“Berlin cannot be defended. It is entirely indefensible.”
The generals gave their opinions on the condition of the defense establishment. The country could not call up enough reserve to deter the Kremlin’s planning. Hansen’s own commander, Billy Crossfield, had told him the same thing.
“Sure, we could send an armored convoy up the autobahn, but it is a calculated risk that could mean total war. Suppose the Russians did make a challenge or suppose the closeness of the situation made them fire by accident. Our forces would be swamped.”
“Mr. President. It is suicide to put all of our air transport capability into supplying Berlin. It simply makes us too vulnerable to pressure everywhere else in the world.”
“Mr. President. I do not believe it is possible to supply Berlin from the air, not even for the forty-five days General Hansen desires.”
The ambassador to the Kremlin reported complete frustration in attempts to see Stalin or Molotov, much less pin them down to a meeting.
General Hansen was not without his champions. Hardline men demanded action, but they spoke more out of pride and anger, for on this day practical men brought home the unpleasant facts of life.
“General Hansen,” the President said, “I think we should wrap up this meeting. Is there any more you believe we ought to know?”