Abruzzo gave a ghost of a nod and tightened his grip slightly on Frank’s hand. And with a rattle in his chest and a small, quick convulsion, he was gone.
“Mark the map for retrieval,” Frank said simply as he placed Abruzzo’s hand gently on his chest. “If we can’t get him later, we’ll make sure someone does.”
The medic nodded and pulled out his tattered map of the city, already stained with someone else’s blood. “Every time, you do that,” he said. “You think it helps?”
Frank shrugged as he got up. “Nobody should die alone.”
There was no good way to get across the Landwehr Canal with any kind of real cover. Worse, no one could identify the usual Red checkpoint on the other side of the bridge. The last thing Frank wanted was to cross over into Russian-occupied territory, only to run into a Soviet squad, especially if Grogan was right and they’d been hitting the vodka. The Reds were fanatics about their turf in Berlin; every bridge and street had a well-armed, well-staffed checkpoint. And even if the Russians didn’t have enough men to staff every little intersection, this was the Wilhelmstrasse, one of Berlin’s biggest thoroughfares. So, where the hell was it?
Grogan ducked over to Frank’s position to report. “I got nothing over there, Lieutenant. All dark. Seems like there’s some kind of emplacement there, but it’s unmanned, far as I can tell. I don’t like this one bit.”
Frank nodded in grim agreement. “Anything from base?”
“Yeah,” the sergeant said, holding up the Handie-Talkie radio. “No friendlies out here. We’re trying to reach the Russians now, but it’s now officiaclass="underline" we’ve been ordered to investigate.”
Frank clenched and unclenched his fists as he stared out across the canal, into the pitch-black night. Orders were orders, and one of his men was dead. Despite all the horrors Frank had experienced in fighting through France and Germany, he couldn’t let that stand. Frank didn’t care about which country held which city block, but he’d be damned if he was going to let some drunk Russian get away with murder.
Grabbing Grogan by the arm, Frank ducked over to where the rest of his squad was huddled. “All right. Weapons out but not aimed. Form up, stick to the sides, and double-time across. Cover on either side unless we run into the Reds. Then hands up and say ‘Privyet.’ Got it?” Frank said. The men nodded. Grogan led the way across, with Frank taking up the rear, keeping an eye out for trouble behind them.
There was none. And there wasn’t any at the other side of the bridge, either. Two piles of sandbags on either side of the street marked the checkpoint, but it wasn’t manned — damned odd. Beyond that was an intersection, ruined buildings on every corner. There were a handful of guttering lights in the windows, but otherwise total darkness and a deathly silence. The streets were barren; after midnight, the Reds were just as strict about curfew as the Americans, British, and French were. Nobody trusted the Germans.
The squad took cover behind the sandbags, peering off down the dimly lit street, looking to Frank to lead. “I don’t like it,” Grogan repeated — this time, loud enough for the rest of the squad to hear. “We’re in Red territory but they ain’t here. Something’s wrong.”
Several of the men nodded in agreement, and Frank couldn’t blame them one bit.
“I don’t like it either. But Tony’s dead and we’ve got orders. So, let’s go take care of it,” Frank said, squaring his jaw. “Same two groups. Stick to the sides of the street; use rubble for cover. We head up Wilhelmstrasse until we either find our shooter or meet up with some Russians. Let’s go.”
The men moved out, but Grogan waited a moment behind and sidled up to his lieutenant. “You know we’re about three or four blocks from the Reich Chancellery,” he said quietly, so as not to worry the men. “That place will be crawling with Reds.”
Frank nodded; the Russians had been the ones to take the city back in April, and they had held on to the best parts of it since, including all the Nazi government buildings and Hitler’s headquarters. Nobody Frank had spoken to really trusted the Soviets. They had been in bed with Hitler before they got screwed over, for starters. Their troops all looked desperate and malnourished, yet mean as hell and drunk off their asses more often than not. Some of the horror stories from the Soviet occupation zone were tough to think about — food and property stolen from civilians, women and girls raped, men killed for no goddamn good reason. Allies was too good a word for ’em, Frank thought.
“Then I guess we better step lively, Sarge. Let’s go.”
The men started up Wilhelmstrasse as ordered. Every murmur and footstep echoed off the silent walls; every bit of rubble kicked up skittered across the street like an avalanche. Frank gritted his teeth. With each step, he became more convinced that they were sitting ducks, caught out in territory that, while not strictly enemy turf, wasn’t exactly friendly, either.
Another block went by at a slow crawl. For a moment, Frank saw a shadow move across a window three floors up. He raised his pistol, but by then it was already gone. He fought back the growing feeling of frustration, the urge to storm the building, barge in, take prisoners, protect his men at all costs. But they weren’t, strictly speaking, soldiers anymore. They were kind of like cops now. Frank had heard that the Russians were pretty cruel to the Berliners in their quarter of the city, and the United States was determined to act better. Frank could only hope that the shadow at the window was merely a curious onlooker, just as nervous as he was.
It wasn’t the window Frank should’ve worried about.
The first bullet zipped all too close to his head, and the sound of multiple shots and muzzle flashes filled the street around them. Frank ducked behind a pile of rubble and got low, barking a quick “Cover!” to his squad. He risked a quick glance out into the street and saw two of his men were dead already, crumpled in the middle of the thoroughfare. And the shots were still coming.
“Return fire!” Frank yelled as he readied his pistol. He eyed the M1 that one of the downed men still had in his hands and cursed himself for not grabbing a carbine before joining the patrol. No way this was coming from the Russians, but where were they? This area was supposed to be pacified.
Shots and flashes turned the dark, silent streets into a cacophony of sound and light. Frank couldn’t see or hear much. He fired blindly ahead, hoping they could at least buy themselves enough room to retreat back across the bridge. But they were under constant fire, and it was coming in heavier now.
Radio. Frank looked around for the signal corpsman who kept the radio handy. He spotted him on the other side of the street, slumped lifelessly against a pile of rubble, blood pooling around him. Of the eleven men he’d crossed the bridge with, Frank could only account for five still shooting.
A flash of light from above startled him; he looked up and saw more fire from the second and third floors of the ruined buildings around him.
Ambush. He should’ve worried about the windows after all.
“Inside!” Frank shouted. “Get inside!” Entering a building with known combatants wasn’t the best plan, but it was better than sitting in a shooting gallery. Frank crouched down and rushed toward a door-sized hole in the wall of an old townhouse, grabbing the arm of one of his men as he ran past.
The soldier fell lifelessly over on his side.
Reaching cover, Frank allowed himself a moment to gather his wits. Maybe four or five men left. No sign of Grogan. Limited ammo. And the goddamn radio was out in the open on the street. From the sounds of gunfire he still heard, he figured there had to be at least six snipers still firing. Six! And where the hell were all the Russians?