Harry Truman finished reading his briefing papers and put his wire-rimmed glasses on the desk. He was exhausted, but no more so than the man in front of him.

“General Marshall, what about our boys and Berlin?”

“Mr. President, they are still making progress, although it is much slower than we had hoped.”

“They’re not taking heavy casualties, are they? I don’t want that. Certainly not at this stage.” Truman had been having second thoughts about the decision to send soldiers toward Berlin. The realization that he was solely responsible for whatever befell those men was a heavy one.

“Actually no, sir. While there have been some casualties, the rate has been quite light. They are simply moving slowly and cautiously, checking for mines and possible ambushes. Also, the roads and bridges have been pounded by the Air Corps, so there’s quite a bit of maintenance to perform as they move out. They are just about ready to move into the suburbs of Berlin.”

Truman snorted. He hated the term light casualties. To him it was an oxymoron. Casualties were light unless, of course, you were one of them, in which case casualties just became heavy. He’d seen casualties firsthand as an artillery officer in World War I and hated the thought of causing them, light or not. He thought it was a good thing that America’s new president was actually a combat veteran who understood the human cost. Too many presidents, FDR included, had never seen real combat.

“At which point,” Truman said, “if I read these maps correctly, they will be very close to the northern arm of the Russian army.”

“Correct.”

Truman put his glasses back on and stared at his secretary of state, Ed Stettinius. “Ed, what about Stalin? Has he responded yet to our note?”

“Not yet, sir.”

Truman scowled. “I certainly hope the man has received it and has given his generals notice of our intentions.”