Hansen answered, “The Russians have been isolated from the West for three decades. Since the end of the war they’ve broken out of their cocoon. They are awed by their sudden new position of being a world power. But, they are suspicous. It’s going to take time for the strangeness to wear off, but we are going to have to learn to live with them.”
“That crap may go in a classroom, Chip,” Stonebraker said to Hansen, addressing him by a nickname used between generals. “Your young major is right. We’re playing their game and they’re going to con us out of our jock straps.”
“For Christ’s sake, sir,” Hazzard added, “do you really believe they’re not going to try to elbow us out of Berlin?”
“That’s academic,” Hansen answered. “The facts are that we have to do business with them.”
“How do we do business, Chip? I’m for the young major’s way.”
“This is 1945. The American people wouldn’t give a lusty crap if we handed over all of Germany or even all of Europe to the Russians. They want to finish the war against Japan and forget the whole goddamned thing. We will receive no public support for a strong stand against the Russians.”
These were, indeed, the ugly facts of life.
“Fine,” Stonebraker said, “we’re in Berlin. Maybe someday we’ll know why. We’ve seen what happens to our convoys. You’d better prepare for an alternate route.”
“Where?”
“In the air. Define air corridors from our zone to Berlin, put it on paper, make it part of the Potsdam Agreement.”
“How can we justify it without getting them heated up?”
Crusty Stonebraker gave a craggy smile. “Tell the Russians it’s for their own good. We all need an air-safety setup because of the volume of traffic. They’ll buy it now. They won’t in a year.”
Hansen didn’t like it Air lanes were foolish. It was a part of Crusty Stonebraker’s vanity.
A knock on the door brought Hansen’s orderly. A sealed envelope was delivered from Russian Marshal Alexei Popov. As Hansen read, the others detected the urgency. He looked from Hazzard to Stonebraker, read aloud. “This is to advise you that the Americans will not be permitted to take possession of the six boroughs of Berlin tomorrow, as previously discussed. It is felt by the Soviet High Command that there must be a formal written agreement and the establishment of a four-power council first. Signed, Marshal Alexei Popov.”
“All right Crusty. Draw up a plan for air lanes. Neal, bring O’Sullivan up here. He’s going to get an opportunity to find out if the comrades are bluffing or not.”
Chapter Two
ANDREW JACKSON HANSEN, HIRAM Stonebraker, and Neal Hazzard all looked down to the Kaserne courtyard. They saw Sean O’Sullivan and Blessing get into the touring car with two enlisted men.
Hansen looked at his watch. It was seven in the morning. This hour was picked because he knew the Russian command didn’t come to life and function until around noon.
The motor chugged, fought the brisk cold, roared into life. The car was stopped at the gate by a drowsy Russian guard. Sean showed him an order signed by Hansen directing Sean to Tempelhof Airdrome to pick up an incoming VIP. The Russian was impressed by the big car and passed it through.
In a few moments three jeeploads of men passed through the gate, ostensibly on routine missions to Berlin.
During the two weeks of his semiconfinement in the Babelsberg Kaserne, Colonel Hazzard kept as many vehicles as possible moving in and out of Berlin for as many reasons as he could invent without rousing Russian suspicion. The vehicles were dispatched along a variety of routes and, whenever possible, photographed the streets until Hazzard’s master map became studded with information. Ordinary Russian troops seldom challenged them for they seemed to hold an equal fear of cameras and maps.
Sean sped along the southern rim of the Wannsee Lake into the Grunewald, whose enormous acreage comprised a great part of the land in the western districts of Berlin.
The forest had not suffered too much war damage and in the morning mist the greenery shielded the sight of the horror of Berlin. He ran parallel to the smaller chain of lakes that bordered the forest and at the crossing waited. In a few moments the other three jeeps arrived from different directions at the rendezvous.
They bisected the forest on Onkel Tom Strasse, turned into Argentine Allee, coming out directly before a magnificent complex of administrative buildings. It had been part of the Hitler Barracks and served as Luftwaffe Headquarters for the Central Germany Command. The Luft Gau buildings and barracks fringed the woods, showed little damage for it had been selected as the future American Headquarters.
Blessing pointed to a central building in the complex with a convenient flag pole on the lawn before it. The area was void of life. Sean waved the convoy in, raised the American flag to the top of the mast, and posted a large hand-painted sign on the front door in English, German, and Russian.
ATTENTION: THIS IS THE PROPERTY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA AND HEREBY DESIGNATED AS HEADQUARTERS FOR THE AMERICAN SECTOR OF BERLIN COMPRISING THE BOROUGHS OF STEGLITZ, ZEHLENDORF, SCHÖNEBERG, NEUKÖLLN, TEMPELHOF, AND KREUZBERG.
SIGNED:
Colonel Neal Hazzard, Commandant American Sector by authority of Major General Andrew Jackson Hansen, First Deputy Military Governor.
Marshal Alexei Popov was awakened from a deep, vodka-induced slumber by a phone call at his Potsdam mansion at the unlikely hour of eight o’clock.
“What do you mean, American troops are at the Hitler Barracks?” he yawned.
“They have proclaimed it as American Headquarters, Comrade Marshal.”
How could they invade, he thought, they don’t have enough troops? “How many?”
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen! Fifteen Americans declaring a headquarters! Fifteen!”
“Yes, Comrade Marshal. Fifteen. What shall we do?”
Popov stretched, scratched his head, and squinted at the clock. What an uncouth hour to start trouble. “Send up a battalion of tanks and stand opposite them. Have a battalion of infantry see that there is no further movement in or out of the area.”
Popov slammed the receiver down, wrestled out of his pajamas, wended his way to the bathroom. His soldierly figure belied sixty years of age. He shaved, doused his face, combed his great full head of soft silver hair, of which he was quite proud, dressed, and called for breakfast in his room, calculating the true meaning of the problem.
The simplest thing to do would be to lift the phone and ask Commissar V. V. Azov for instructions. That would, however, be a sign of weakness. Popov had worked his way through every rank in the Red Army, was among its founders, had survived the purges. He had not come this far just to prove to a political commissar that he was unable to deal with fifteen Americans. Obviously, the Americans had something up their sleeves. What was it?
An aide came in with word that Russian troops had the Americans completely cut off and a field phone was in operation. He put in a call to his commander at Hitler Barracks.
“Marshal Popov speaks here.”
“Good morning, Comrade Marshal, Colonel Vanyev here.”
“What is your situation?”
“I have ten tanks and a hundred men deployed opposite the Americans. The streets are blocked off. They merely stand before the door of the building.”
“Send someone across the street and rip down their proclamation.”
“And what if they open fire?” Vanyev asked.
“Call back for instructions.”
He finished his coffee, stood before the mirror, struck a small pose. The Americans called him the Silver Fox. Not bad at all, he admitted to himself. The phone rang, Vanyev reporting.
“Did you rip their proclamation down?”