Damn. Maybe we should volunteer for point. I promised my wife's parents that I'd keep her as a JAP, and I'd like a chance to keep that promise."

"What's a JAP?" Logan asked, feeling that Singer was teasing him.

Singer grinned. "Jewish American Princess. And I do think it'd be best to be the lead dog."

"That's right," said Logan. "And if they do set up a roadblock to delay the point of the column, then the rest of us will have to stop and wait for it to be cleared. Sitting ducks

is the phrase I think fits best."

"Shit. Well, intelligence says the Germans are gone."

"Lieutenant," laughed Logan, "with all respects to the fine men in G-2, I will believe that when pigs fly."

Singer was puzzled. "Sergeant Logan, how come you're not an officer? You are certainly intelligent enough, and I understand you do have a couple years of college."

Logan shrugged. "At one time I thought I was going to be an officer. I tested out okay and put in the papers for Officer Candidate School down at Fort Benning, but we all got shipped out before anything could happen. My tough luck, I guess. At any rate, I can't complain. I got my three stripes fast enough and, now that I'm a platoon sergeant, I think they owe me one more."

Singer got up and left, saying he was going to write a quick note to his wife before they moved out, and Logan wondered what kind of woman he'd married. Lieutenant Singer was short and a little plump. Logan wondered if his wife was short and plump as well. He shook his head. No way he should start fantasizing about his lieutenant's unseen bride. He stood and shook the dirt off the seat of his pants. Time to get his squad together and make sure the new lieutenant didn't get lost on the way to Berlin.

Logan guessed he was flattered that it was he who was assigned as Singer's babysitter until the man got the necessary experience. First Sergeant Krenski was just as happy to have the virgin Lieutenant Singer out of the way until he learned the lay of the land and could actually begin leading.

Logan looked again at the line of tanks now moving slowly down the road preparatory to jumping off for Berlin. The tanks, even with their high silhouettes and stubby guns, still looked strong and powerful. So how come he had this feeling of foreboding?

THE SMALL ROOM in the Kremlin was brightly lit by the sun streaming through the high glass windows, which had been built in the days before electricity. The glare caused Josef Stalin to blink as he entered. The other two men ignored the premier's momentary discomfort as he moved behind the desk and seated himself. Stalin, who was quite short, liked to be seated when in the company of others. The first of the two men was the bespectacled Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov, who at age fifty-five held the official title of Commissar for Foreign Affairs, although he fulfilled whatever duties Stalin assigned him.

The second man was Lavrentii Pavlovich Beria, the squinty-eyed and reptilian chief of state security, the dreaded NKVD. He held the rank of marshal. Beria's army consisted of border guards and, most important, those men whose duty was to hold the regular army commanders responsible for their loyalty. Virtually at will or whim, they could shoot deserters or execute officers for failure to accomplish tasks.