Read Online Red Inferno: 1945 by Robert Conroy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Conroy
Tags: United States, Fiction, General, Historical, Historical - General, Fiction - Historical, World War II, World War, 1939-1945, War & Military, Alternative History, Soviet Union, American Historical Fiction, Foreign relations
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us,” Brentwood yelled.
“I still think they’re Russians, Colonel,” Tony said.
“Then why the hell are they shooting at us and why the hell are you arguing with me?”
Tony winced. He had gone too far. Now there would be no reasoning with the colonel.
“Open fire,” Brentwood ordered, and a dozen American guns blasted. At long range, only a couple of enemy tanks were hit and they weren’t damaged.
At that moment, the spotter plane’s pilot confirmed that the tanks were Russians and might be shooting at a German position. Brentwood paled and Tony declined to say I told you so.
Brentwood grabbed him by the shoulder. “Toad, get the hell out there with a flag while I contact division.”
Though reluctant to leave the relative security of the tank’s armored womb, Tony clambered out onto the ground and pulled out the bag that contained a good-sized American flag and a collapsible pole. Many of these had been distributed so they could identify themselves visually should the need arise. Tony thought the need was now absolutely imperative and scrambled to connect it to the pole. He looked around and saw crewmen from a number of American tanks and half-tracks doing the same thing. There was a decent breeze and the flags unfurled themselves so that even a blind Russian could see them.
The Russian tanks continued to close on them and he could now see they had infantry trotting alongside. He counted more than the thirty tanks he first saw and many more were still coming into view, and they were definitely within range. Why hadn’t they shot at them? Were they concerned about killing Americans? Christ, he hoped so.
Suddenly, the Russian tanks opened fire. Dozens of guns barked, their sound barely preceding the stunning concussion of their shells impacting around him.
Tony clambered onto the hull as the tank began to back up. He could hear Brentwood screaming into the radio that he was being attacked by Russians. Tony was just about to climb down the hatch into his tank when the shock of a near miss threw him to the ground and rolled him away from his Sherman. He tried to rise again, but his tank took a hit. It lifted off the ground, then settled with a crash. For a moment he thought he was dead. He wasn’t, but his tank had been killed. It was burning furiously and the intense heat drove him back. The turret hatch opened and a living torch tried to crawl out. Tony watched in horror as the blackened, burning thing with no face moved a little, twitched, and stopped halfway out. Tony thought it was Ernie, but he couldn’t be sure. Asshole Brentwood was doubtless still cooking inside the tank.
He gagged from the sight and the stench of burning flesh. He crawled farther away from the Sherman and then looked around. A half-dozen other American tanks were also in flames, as were a couple of half-tracks. The sound of ammunition exploding inside the Shermans told him he was ungodly fortunate to be alive. The remainder of the American vehicles were running away from the one-sided battle as quickly as they could. He looked at the rapidly closing Reds and didn’t see any of their tanks on fire or stopped.
There were some other Americans lying on the ground around him. Most of them were quite still and only a couple were moving their arms or trying to rise. Tony checked himself and realized that he was basically unhurt. Bruises and cuts didn’t count in a disaster like this.
He looked at the Russian tanks. They were advancing faster toward him than he could ever think of running. They were outstripping their own infantry, which was rapidly being left behind. He whimpered without realizing it and settled himself to wait for whatever the Russians might do.
The sound of airplane engines from behind him caused him to look up quickly as a pair of American P-47 fighter-bombers roared only a few feet overhead. Their machine guns chewed through the Russian infantry but did no harm to the tanks. The fighters banked sharply and
“I still think they’re Russians, Colonel,” Tony said.
“Then why the hell are they shooting at us and why the hell are you arguing with me?”
Tony winced. He had gone too far. Now there would be no reasoning with the colonel.
“Open fire,” Brentwood ordered, and a dozen American guns blasted. At long range, only a couple of enemy tanks were hit and they weren’t damaged.
At that moment, the spotter plane’s pilot confirmed that the tanks were Russians and might be shooting at a German position. Brentwood paled and Tony declined to say I told you so.
Brentwood grabbed him by the shoulder. “Toad, get the hell out there with a flag while I contact division.”
Though reluctant to leave the relative security of the tank’s armored womb, Tony clambered out onto the ground and pulled out the bag that contained a good-sized American flag and a collapsible pole. Many of these had been distributed so they could identify themselves visually should the need arise. Tony thought the need was now absolutely imperative and scrambled to connect it to the pole. He looked around and saw crewmen from a number of American tanks and half-tracks doing the same thing. There was a decent breeze and the flags unfurled themselves so that even a blind Russian could see them.
The Russian tanks continued to close on them and he could now see they had infantry trotting alongside. He counted more than the thirty tanks he first saw and many more were still coming into view, and they were definitely within range. Why hadn’t they shot at them? Were they concerned about killing Americans? Christ, he hoped so.
Suddenly, the Russian tanks opened fire. Dozens of guns barked, their sound barely preceding the stunning concussion of their shells impacting around him.
Tony clambered onto the hull as the tank began to back up. He could hear Brentwood screaming into the radio that he was being attacked by Russians. Tony was just about to climb down the hatch into his tank when the shock of a near miss threw him to the ground and rolled him away from his Sherman. He tried to rise again, but his tank took a hit. It lifted off the ground, then settled with a crash. For a moment he thought he was dead. He wasn’t, but his tank had been killed. It was burning furiously and the intense heat drove him back. The turret hatch opened and a living torch tried to crawl out. Tony watched in horror as the blackened, burning thing with no face moved a little, twitched, and stopped halfway out. Tony thought it was Ernie, but he couldn’t be sure. Asshole Brentwood was doubtless still cooking inside the tank.
He gagged from the sight and the stench of burning flesh. He crawled farther away from the Sherman and then looked around. A half-dozen other American tanks were also in flames, as were a couple of half-tracks. The sound of ammunition exploding inside the Shermans told him he was ungodly fortunate to be alive. The remainder of the American vehicles were running away from the one-sided battle as quickly as they could. He looked at the rapidly closing Reds and didn’t see any of their tanks on fire or stopped.
There were some other Americans lying on the ground around him. Most of them were quite still and only a couple were moving their arms or trying to rise. Tony checked himself and realized that he was basically unhurt. Bruises and cuts didn’t count in a disaster like this.
He looked at the Russian tanks. They were advancing faster toward him than he could ever think of running. They were outstripping their own infantry, which was rapidly being left behind. He whimpered without realizing it and settled himself to wait for whatever the Russians might do.
The sound of airplane engines from behind him caused him to look up quickly as a pair of American P-47 fighter-bombers roared only a few feet overhead. Their machine guns chewed through the Russian infantry but did no harm to the tanks. The fighters banked sharply and
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