CHAPTER NINETEEN
JOE HAD ESCAPED TOWARD THE SOUTHEAST. MAJOR'S ADVANCE started in the opposite direction, part of Zhukov's mighty push to the Oder, Berlin being just fifty miles beyond the western bank. Now that Joe was fully integrated into her battalion she released him to ride on other tanks, which she rotated on point every day. While he was with them in Poland nearly all the battalion's casualties were from artillery and snipers, not frrefights. Almost daily some Hitlerite infantry were captured but in numbers too small for Major to report to regiment. One time eight were found holed up in a root cellar. They were brought out, stripped of their boots and overcoats; they were being herded to the rear when Major's tank came along. She asked the Mongols where the hell they were going.
The answer was pretty lame. Like grade-schoolers caught smoking, the Mongols hadn't expected to be seen by Major. Their story was that the prisoners were being taken back for interrogation. This brought a laugh from the tankers—no one was interested in interrogating anymore, especially the likes of these miserable Hitlerites. Half of them were teenage or younger; the others looked like grandfathers. We don't bother to question this type, Major indicated, so why hadn't they been sent to Valhalla on the spot? she demanded to know.
“I wish I'd understood the reason the three Mongols gave. They were teenage too. There was no doubt the Hitlerites would be executed, but the Mongols apparently had something extra in store for them. Major didn't approve, and I heard submachine-gun fire as soon as her tank moved out.
“Snipers were the main problem as resistance began to wilt. Instead of a morale lift, my comrades became gloomy because a river was ahead, the Oder. So what, I said. We haven't fought a single tank. That's because the tanks are on the other side, Yo—that's the way the Hitlerites always fight.”
They knew Joe by then. They could confide that rivers were sumps, trenches for Russian blood that must be filled before crossing. Between slugs of vodka they spoke of the Desna, the Dnieper, the Bresina, the Vistula. No soldier in the battalion now had survived them all, but the rivers were legacies, the equivalent of four Normandies. Now ahead lay the Oder, the last river. The Hitlerites were concentrated to defend it, their last stand before Berlin. Drinking was harder when Major got her orders to move up to cross.
“Whatever I said through the translator got around quickly,” Joe recalls. “Drunk Russians I'd never met came up and said, 'Hey, I heard you want to see panzers? They're over there, Yo, don't worry' They'd name off the five best tanks on the Eastern Front. Fifth was the Sherman. The first three were Hitlerite.
“As we were moving up, a recon squadron was pulling back from the Oder. A squadron at full strength would have about seven hundred troops and a hundred vehicles. We had priority on the road, so when they made way for us I got an idea of how many were left—less than a hundred guys and ten shot-up scout cars. Major found their commander to ask him about the situation on the river. The senior man left in the squadron was a twenty-year-old lieutenant. He was in deep shell shock. Eighty-eights had blown every one of his amphibious vehicles out of the water with their crews. He put his head on Major's shoulder; she stroked it like a mother and crooned to him in a soft voice. At times the Russians were very open with emotions like that. She gave him two bottles of vodka before he climbed off our tank.”
Major called her regimental commander to report what she 'd learned from the lieutenant. The colonel told her to take anyone she needed from the recon squadron even though he didn't command it. Major said she didn't want anybody—the survivors were too shaken, they would lower her battalion's morale. That's the way things usually worked in the Red Army, though: a shattered unit wasn't re-formed and given replacements, its survivors were just absorbed by any outfit who could grab them. It was as if the 506th, after heavy casualties in Normandy, had been dissolved and whoever was left distributed around understrength units.
“With the help of John in Russia I've tried to find out what happened to Major's battalion, but I'm afraid it was one of those units that was worn down to nothing then dropped from the Soviet books,” Joe says.
'After what had happened to the recon squadron I expected to see ambulances taking their casualties to the rear. There were no ambulances. Ammo trucks on return trips evacuated the wounded. The dead were buried in mounds, not temporarily as in Normandy but buried forever. Their families were informed that their son had died in Poland. That was it. After the war each village was presented with a scroll of names who had been killed.”
While Major was talking with her commander on the radio he gave her a pep talk. First Ukrainian Front, about fifty miles south, had encircled Breslau and crossed the upper Oder, where it was not so wide. That sounded like good news, but it wasn't because First Ukrainian Front was commanded by Marshal Konev, Zhukov's rival to take Berlin. The good news was that the Hitlerites were reinforcing on the Neisse River and would hold Konev up. What Zhukov needed now was a bridgehead over the lower Oder. First Belorussian Front was to get it for him and fast.
During that conversation Joe overheard a familiar word: “Kustrin.” The stone-walled town had been heavily fortified by Hitlerites and was now their only stronghold on the east bank. Major started smiling. The colonel had given her a warning order to turn north toward Kustrin, where there was still a bridge up across the Oder. Wipe out “the pocket of resistance” and seize the bridge.
“We didn't know it, but she really had no reason to smile,” Joe said. “Kustrin held out till the last month of the war. I was already back in the U.S. when it finally fell. I read Russian losses had been staggering, and I'm sure they included many of Major's—of my—battalion.”
AT THIS POINT BEGINS a chaotic and sometimes contradictory chronology involving the German fortress at Kustrin, Major's battalion, Joe, and the POWs at Stalag III-C. The senior American there, the Man of Confidence, was Sergeant Leroy Coleman. As the Russians closed in, the III-C commandant received orders from Berlin to evacuate Western prisoners across the only remaining bridge at Kustrin. His Russian POWs were to be exterminated.
The commandant ordered Coleman to prepare for this move. In the all-enlisted-men stalag, there were two American officers, Captains Niggerman and Hendricks, the chaplain and doctor respectively, as allowed by the Geneva Conventions. Coleman realized that a finale was approaching. As the man in charge and not knowing if he'd survive, Coleman felt an obligation to record the last days of III-C. He handwrote two copies and gave one to Sergeant William Wheeler. This copy found its way to Sergeant Henson of the 101st from the “new” American compound and by way of him reached Joe after the war.
Tech. Sgt. Leroy Coleman (MOC), Stalag 3-C. As copied per his letter, 31 January 1945:
Strength in camp 1997 Commando [Coleman's staff housed outside
the compound] 42
Canadians attached to camp but never seen 114
Total 2153
31 Jan. 1945. Awakened by Capt. Niggerman and told to be prepared to move everyone by 0730.
Delay ordered by Abwehr. 1045. Block III moved out after purposable [sic] delaying had been used. Block I followed. I with my staff was between the two blocks of prisoners. The direction we marched was north toward the east side of the Oder. Three kilometers up the road column was attacked by a Russian tank force.
Joe recalls: “I was on the seventh or eighth tank back. Major's was four in front of me. The two ahead of her opened fire with cannons and machine guns. It was the most sudden engagement I'd been in with the Russians. Usually the scouts started a fight. This time we had met some kraut vehicles and they shot back. We got the upper hand right away. When my tank pulled up on line a kraut half-track and a scout vehicle were in flames. Behind them what looked like a mass of infantry had turned tail and fled. This wasn't like the krauts, and when I looked closer I could tell they weren't armed. I ran in front of the tanks, waved and shouted cease fire! Major yelled to get down. I yelled back, 'Americanski tovarish!'”
COLEMAN:
We Americans were maybe mistaken for Hungarians (uniforms same color). Casualties conservative estimate 10 to 15 wounded…. Rest of POW column turned back to sta-lag. Ten minutes after arrival German officers demanded I move men out again in direction of Kustrin. I refused, saying we were safer in the stalag trenches.
Consultation held among a German major and two captains. They threatened to fire heavy artillery if we didn't move. I wouldn't do it. Asked for five minutes to talk this over with Cpt. Hendricks. His answer was the same as mine.
A German captain came up with more guards and forced us out of the compound. We were to go back toward Kustrin. This time we were cut off by Russians coming from another direction. Column returned in an orderly retreat to the stalag. No casualties this time. In the confusion about a quarter of the POW's escaped to the east.
With us six Germans re-entered the stalag minus weapons. I ordered Sgt. Fernechuck to separate them and be put in a room. When we were liberated they were turned over to the Russians who immediately killed them. The Russians put guards around the compounds to prevent looting. No food was issued but plenty of Red Cross parcels liberated.
1 FEB. 1945
Men continued to dig in and pile dirt against the barracks. German planes were strafing the roads. Russians promised to evacuate us as soon as possible. Water is limited. Last German bomber of the day dropped butterfly bombs killing Sgt. Calhoun and Hall. Others were wounded. German snipers hit some Russian POW's who are kept in their compound just as we are.
2 FEB.
From 0100 till daylight heavy 88 fire from the Oder against Russian attack. Larger caliber artillery hit close to stalag. Everyone stayed in shelters. Roads dive bombed (Stukas) from 2 to 5 miles away as Russians build up to cross Oder. 120 cans of milk collected and given to Russian POW's. Men tried to dig up potatos in the fields but turned back by snipers. Wounded placed in stone barrack.
3 FEB.
A clear and sunny day. Food committee formed and collected 10 large barrels of sauerkraut, one complete cow, 600 lbs of turnips. 3 live cows held in reserve.
Cooking done at night because of planes overhead. Stukas out in force, 30 dive bombers for 2 hours. At some point 3 to 5 miles up the road a terrific concussion, probably Russian ammo dump. A great surprise—formation of flying forts overhead at noon. One was knocked down. Received Vihour notice from Russians that stalag was to be evacuated at 1700. Men unable to march are left in Russian Lazerett (Hospital). Two aid men and an interpreter left with them.
Auf wiedersehen 3-C!
Joe remembers: “So it was on 31 January that my battalion fired on the column of POWs. I begged Major to head in their direction. She was more than willing. The terrain began to look familiar. Pretty soon we came upon the railroad tracks from Breslau. I told her there would be a stone road pretty soon leading to the stalag. She decided to approach it from the woods and put Mongols out front to find the road for her tanks. The Russians were pumped up when they learned that this time they would hit a fixed position where the Hitlerites could not just fire some artillery and fade away. Ohh-ah, they started yelling as we went through the woods.
“We heard fire along the Mongol line up ahead. German small arms answered. I told Major this was probably from watchtowers. Then the Mongols were held up by barbed wire. They'd reached the outer fence of III-C.
“Major's tanks were now jammed on the stone road, just the way the Polish farmer told me he'd seen them when he was a boy. She asked me if the road led into the camp. Yes, I said, right to the main gate.
“ 'Follow my ass!'
“I had to scramble back to a tank as Major roared off in the lead. I managed to tell her please don't use cannons, the camp guards don't have any antitank weapons and POWs could be killed. Major swore at me, said she'd use whatever was needed, but okay, she 'd first try to batter her way in.
“That's just what happened. Four tanks back I made the turn that had dumped me out of the beet barrel a month ago. The main gate was down. Three tanks were churning around the kraut administrative area, machine-gunning every building. Their treads were full of barbed wire from crashing through the gate and fence. Other tanks were using their cannons to knock down the watchtowers. A few krauts tried to climb down and surrender, but Major's battalion was not taking any prisoners today.
“I jumped off my tank. The American compound looked abandoned, and the fence Brewer and Quinn had cut on our first escape was still up. Unless Major decided to knock down that fence, I'd just check out the Hitlerite part of the stalag. I remembered Schultz and where his little house was. He was there, on his back, eyes open, bloating from a stomach full of lead. I shed some tears for Schultz, did it alone because the Russians might misunderstand. If he hadn't been in Hitler's army, we could have been good friends. He'll be someone I'll look up when I soar.”
Near Schultz was a woman facedown, no doubt his wife. At least she hadn't been raped, from what Joe could see. Later he mentioned this to a Russian buddy, who was offended: yes, rape was common but not with frontline troops like Major's battalion. It was the rear echelons who did that sort of thing. He'd seen too much of Hitlerite rapes and mutilations to do it himself.
As soon as the shooting let up Joe heard a long wail. It came from the Russian compound, a pitiful but joyful sound. Russian POWs began to come out of the ground. Major's men were frozen by the sight. Slowly then faster the risen POWs massed like a throng of stick figures. On Major's command a tank crashed down part of the fence.
“The POWs stumbled toward us like ghosts from hell. I was probably less stunned than anyone because I knew how they'd been suffering and dying. The commissar rushed over to Major. They had an argument, which he won. The POWs were pushed back through the hole in the fence. They obeyed that order, but Major's men rushed through to join them despite the commissar's protests.”
Joe learned that all POWs were suspect in the Red Army. When the USSR was being overrun, soldiers surrendered by the hundreds of thousands, not knowing what Hitlerites were like. To discourage surrender, Stalin put out a policy to punish family members of POWs. “It took a brave man to be a coward,” a Russian buddy told Joe. That was early in the war, but Major's commissar was still following policy. Her troops were not, at least not at III-C, from what Joe saw.
“All kraut rations were rounded up and taken into the POW compound. Belorussian troops found Belorussian POWs, Mongols found Mongols. They hugged like lovers and rolled around together for a long time. After that the POWs were lined up in ranks. A soldier gave a vodka bottle to the first POW. He took a slug and passed it to his left for the next man. Each POW sort of reeled back after his slug, but the discipline was perfect: one man, one slug, then pass the bottle on. The Russians had another name for vodka, which translated ‘my friend.’ It was as if each slug was an embrace from the closest friend the POW ever had.”
Like everyone but the commissar, Joe was overcome by it all while he leaned against a fence post. It was like going from one vision to another when someone nudged him to look over at the American compound, which had seemed abandoned. Figures were starting to emerge there too, much stronger, many fewer, more cautiously.
What Joe saw corresponds to what Coleman recounts on the dates January 31-February 1, during which time the American krieges had been forced twice to march from III-C toward Kustrin, each attempt being turned back by the Red Army. Those present when the stalag was liberated were about half the number in camp on January 30.
“They'd look over at the Russians, then the Russian POWs. I rushed to the American fence and started yelling, 'Hey, it's me, Beyrle!' I took off my pile cap so they'd recognize me.” They gawked and talked, then came over like they couldn't quite believe it.
“ 'What are you doing over there, Joe?'
“ 'I'm with the Russians!' I told them, holding up my PPSh-41.
“ 'Canyougetusoutofhere?'
“ 'You're free! You're liberated! “They still didn't believe it. 'Is Brewer here? Quinn?'
“‘Yeah,’ someone murmured, ‘right overthere.’” He pointed to the exercise yard. In the corner were two wooden crosses.
In shock, Joe asked about his mucker Johnson. No one knew, so he may have gotten away during one of the marches and countermarches yesterday. Yesterday. What a different day that was. Joe couldn't tell his compatriots when they'd be released. That was up to the Russians, who had their own priorities. He was pulled away by Major's first sergeant, who was greatly agitated.
Joe was taken by the hand and double-timed to stalag headquarters. Major, with some of her staff and company commanders, was pacing around the commandant's office. She had let two guards live long enough to show her where it was. The guards were now dead on the floor, their blood still flowing. Major looked at Joe impatiently, as if he had been playing hooky. Her order was, “Yo, open this vault!”
“What she was talking about was an iron wall safe the size of a walk-in closet. From where I'll never know she handed me eight pounds of nitro starch, American nitro starch the same as we'd used at Fort Benning. 'Enough?' I patted her hand and asked everyone to leave the room. The commissar didn't want to go. I said, Okay, you can light the fuse. He left.
“With the nitro starch were blasting caps and cords. All I had to do was prime the charges. 'Sergeant Lincewitz, be with me now,' I prayed, then set things up. I was conservative on the size of the charges, figuring to use more if the heavy door didn't blow open or hung up.
“I got behind the commandant's heavy desk and lit the fuses bunched in my hand. As they burned down I could hear Russians stomping around like they couldn't wait to get in the room. 'Fire in the hole!' I yelled, though I'm sure they didn't know what that meant. Boom. Nothing very big, not too loud or shattering. 'Be clever in doing the Lord's work,' the sisters had taught me.”
Through a cloud of smoke Joe saw the safe door hanging open like Ali Baba's cave.
After the explosion, shouting increased outside the office. Joe rushed to the door, said he was okay but had a little more to do, slammed it, entered the safe, and looked around. Papers and paper currency were scattered everywhere.
“Instead of the money—I'd be living in Monte Carlo now instead of Muskegon—I went for the papers first, papers and photos. The efficient krauts had every kriege's file listed alphabetically. So mine was near the top: my XII-A mug shot and the krauts' record of my POW life, including escapes.”
Joe hardly noticed the Russians rushing in. Except for the commissar they cared nothing for records, only the watches, jewelry, and cameras that had once belonged to POWs, and money. Blowing around were reichsmarks, rubles, sterling, Swiss francs, greenback dollars, and many currencies Joe had never seen. He liberated two pocketsful of two-digit dollars.
Major grabbed his head, pulled it back, and planted a big wet kiss on his lips. Yo had come through, justified her faith in him. Ohh-ah! her first sergeant agreed. She ordered the currency shoved into a big mail satchel before the commissar could intervene.
Major radioed the regimental commander, said the situation at III-C was under control, so her battalion was ready for its next mission. That's the spirit, the colonel said, and gave her one—move on to Kustrin at once. They pulled out before Joe could say good-bye to the Americans, pulled out on Major's tank, which he guessed held about $200,000 in various denominations. Major threw out several cannon rounds to make room for the money satchel in her ammo rack.
As she rumbled away from III-C the second echelon of Russian troops took over and began evacuating the American POWs east. They ended up in Odessa, as Joe eventually did but first they were used as hostages.
An army of Soviet defectors, mostly cossacks under General Vlasov, had been formed by the Germans when their own manpower ran short. Vlasov recruited in stalags where a huge number of Russians volunteered, first because nothing could be worse than being a Russian POW, and second because they hated Stalin more than Hitler. It's still debated today which dictator killed more Russians, but the nod should go to Stalin because he worked at it many more years, before and after the war.
As secrets of World War II have come out, one was that Stalin told the Allies that if they wanted their own POWs back, they'd have to turn over Vlasov's army, which had surrendered in the west. Eisenhower acquiesced in what must have been his most terrible choice.
FOR A FEW DAYS after liberating III-C the only resistance encountered by Major's battalion was from snipers. She hated snipers, probably because they didn't shoot the first Russian they saw—they waited patiently and bravely to pick off leaders. The Germans knew that without leaders the Russians floundered, especially when attacking. Except in a firefight Major always stood halfway out of the turret, so she was an obvious sniper target and knew it.
If a Mongol brought in the rifle of a sniper he'd killed— that was very rare—she rewarded him with a tank ride for the rest of the day. Joe saw one of those rifles, a Mauser, with a scope that had the best optics he's ever seen. The Japanese were famous for their snipers, but the Germans, on then-record, were much better, the best snipers in the war.
It was “very unpublicized,” Joe says, “but just a few could hold up a large number of Russians. Lord knows the Russians were brave, but they had to have a target to be brave against. Snipers never gave them a target.
“I haven't mentioned the weather, but it was our worst enemy. Not a lot of snow but very, very cold, below zero, and the wind felt like being sandblasted with ice. The doctors today consider my feet frostbitten, though I have all my toes. I know they're still with me because they become very painful at times. When there are cold snaps in Muskegon I elevate my feet on the La-Z-Boy; it has a vibrator, which helps. Frostbite didn't happen at one place; it was a combination of my time in solitary, the freezing during my escape across Poland, then with the Russians.”
Joe guarded against the cold as they did, by wearing layers of cotton and wrapping strips of burlap around his brogans. Everyone's antifreeze was vodka. Alcohol draws blood to the center of the body, leaving the extremities more vulnerable to frostbite. That didn't matter. The Russian attitude was if you feel warmer, you are warmer. Joe had a drinking problem for a while after the war. It started with the Russians.
“On our way to the Oder we swept snipers aside and just accepted the casualties they caused. Berlin was just one more river away. Berlin was now the war cry. Hitlerite buildings were overrun with gusto because there was often something to scrounge inside—apples, beets, sometimes clothing. Anything wool or fur we could use, to stuff in our socks, pile on our head, or wrap around our ears. My buddies told me these were great pickings. When the Hitlerites were retreating across Russia and eastern Poland, they took or destroyed everything, completely scorched the earth. Now that we were in the part of Poland that had been repopulated by Germans, they must have persuaded the Wehrmacht to leave them with something, things we were happy to liberate.”
This period after III-C was a calm before the storm on the Oder. At night before chow there were rounds of toasts, to the Motherland, to Stalin, Churchill, Roosevelt, Lend-Lease, to Sherman tanks, Dodge and Studebaker trucks. To Detroit, Michigan, too, because they thought that's where all American vehicles came from. Actually the Studebakers were manufactured in Indiana, but Joe never said so. He'd get up, urged to every night, and loudly sound off with the Notre Dame fight song.
Joe didn't know all the words, which didn't matter because the Russians didn't know any. What they wanted was for him to da-da-da the tune. Before long they could too, and much better. Many of them had wonderful voices and made tremendous harmonies. Polish forests filled with a stirringly wordless version of “Wake Up the Echoes.”
“These things I remember,” Joe says. “They are among the last of my memories with Major's battalion. I expected to be one of her casualties. It was like a premonition.”
The Hitlerites were stiffening around Kustrin. The Luftwaffe made frequent appearances. Major knew this was serious because, before Joe joined her battalion, German planes had been committed only at crucial points when a large Wehr-macht force was in deep trouble. The Germans were not in such a tactical situation now. They had shortened their lines and were concentrated, reinforced, and well supplied to stop Zhukov at the Oder. The Luftwaffe overhead now meant the last hand of the war was being dealt and it was showdown.
“We started losing a tank and ten men per day. Through a snowfield the platoon I was with came up on a wood line where there was a nasty, well-prepared position with a machine gun and some Panzerfausts. The krauts had let us get pretty close; usually they used long-range fire to make us stop and disperse. This time it was more like an ambush. The Mongols got down and crawled up to grenade range, but the Germans concentrated on the tanks behind them. The one in front of me lost a tread to a Panzerfaust. The crew kept fighting with its machine gun till another antitank round hit the turret where it joined the hull.
“A damn good shot from about fifty yards, and it finished that tank. It was smoking and could blow up with all its ammo inside, but I felt that if I could get up behind it, it would give me good cover to spray the Hitlerite position. I crawled up along the tank's track in the snow. There was plenty of fire going back and forth, and I wasn't noticed.
“As I leaned on the hull to commence fire I heard the driver dying inside. That was horrible, and I shot off a whole drum in two bursts, screaming in English as I did. Maybe the krauts wondered which front they were on! They started sending fire at me, and that helped the Mongols close in on them. Then there were plenty of screams and yells on both sides. These were die-hard SS troops, and we made sure they died hard. Some flamethrowers came up from the rear. Their nickname was wiener roasters. They weren't needed this time—the Mongols had done the job without them—but the flamethrowers wanted to participate, so they finished off the wounded. For disease control it was normal to cremate the dead. So what if these Hitlerites weren't quite dead?
“My last morning with the battalion was clear, dry, cold but sunny. By normal rotation I was back on Major's tank. As usual we moved out at dawn. A Sherman makes a lot of noise. I couldn't hear anything but noticed the infantry scatter. Then there was a high whine. A flight of Stukas dove down from the east, out of the rising sun. I saw the bombs grow larger; that's the last thing I saw or remembered for a while.”
A bomb blew Joe off the tank. He woke up in a ditch with a medic bending over him. Major was observing with her hands on hips. He'd taken a piece of shrapnel in the groin. The medic was packing the wound with snow. Joe had also been hit in the right knee but didn't realize it because the groin wound was so painful, the worst pain since Berlin. When the medic turned back Joe's overcoat, blood gushed out. When Major saw that she shaded her eyes. My God, he thought, she must have seen much worse than this, or else I'm about to die.
Major had lost her husband at Demyansk, in the same battle that the Wehrmacht lieutenant colonel who saved Joe from the Gestapo had lost most of his leg. Joe was in shock but also shocked that she was making a scene over him. She bent down and said something like Schultz had told him: go home now to your family; the war will be over. Proshchai tovarish.
Joe managed a salute, but she was jogging back to her tank. In the turret Major turned to look at him before yelling her war cry. It sounded different. Her eyes were also swimming.
“Our time together had been brief but like no other I've ever heard of. She felt it, I felt it, and we stared at each other as we both realized it. Of all the people who may have survived World War II, I wish I knew if she is still alive. And if she is, I'd go to Russia just to see her—my major, my CO, my second Wolverton—who was a woman.
“Her infantry was advancing as I was put on a stretcher. Some gave me the V for victory and shouted, 'Berlin!' They must have known I couldn't go with them but pretended I would. It was thirty-seven years before I reached Berlin, but at least I was alive to do it. Very few of them, I'm afraid, ever got there.”
When presented forecasts of the cost to crush the heart of the Third Reich in its capital, Eisenhower set aside a plan to drop the 101st on the outskirts of the city, thereby giving over the honor and horror of capturing Berlin to Zhukov. Starting from their attack across the Oder, a quarter million Russians died to take Berlin, about the same number the Germans lost at Stalingrad—and nearly the total of American dead in World War II.
“so I'D NOW LIKE to salute and say, Proshchai tovarish. You took it to the end. More than anyone else you won the war.” And with it, Joe's heart.