Order of Battle (16 page)

“What are you doing here?” he repeated.

“I was waiting.” Her voice was small. “For you.”

He felt his insides tense up. “What is it?”

“I—I can find no place to go. There is no room for me anywhere.”

She was fighting valiantly to blink away the tears brimming in her eyes. She looked down. A single tear broke loose and rolled down her cheek.

Erik stared at her. He felt drawn to her. Strongly. Needfully. And he felt the chill of guilt. He ached with the conflict that raged within him. He was fully aware of the harrowing memories the girl brought back to him, memories that threatened to devour him. But for once he refused to bury them and he repelled the impulse to run away and retreat into his shell. He forced himself to look straight at the girl. She was so much like—her.

Baraville, France. Seven months ago, that’s when it happened. She, too, had had tears in her eyes, but they’d been tears of joy.

Erik and his CIC team had entered the little French village on the heels of the assault troops that took the town.

Tania was just twenty. She was Ukrainian, brought from her native land to labor for her conquerors in a strange, faraway place when she was only seventeen. Her happiness at being freed was boundless. Years of pent-up misery, humiliation and despair miraculously and instantaneously changed into a wellspring of joy, and delight—and love.

Erik was entranced with the girl and her inexhaustible exuberance. It had been a long time, and Tania was eager to give of her overwhelming gratitude and her love.

They were together. Their hunger for one another had the fervor of desperation and profound need. His, to cling to sanity through tender closeness, an abandonment in passion. Hers, to give of herself without limit, with no thought of time or place.

And throughout that one night Erik loved her. Loved her with his every embrace, his every thought. Tania.

The next day the Germans counterattacked.

It was a seesaw battle, and the Germans drove the Americans from Baraville. They held the village for less than twenty-four hours. The front rolled inexorably toward the Rhine, and Baraville once again fell to the American troops.

Erik returned.

It was a hectic time. He had little opportunity to give any thought to his Ukrainian girl.

And then she walked into his office.

Tania.

Horribly mutilated. Punished by the vengeful SS troops when they learned she’d given herself to the enemy. With malignant brutality they had reduced her to a nonwoman, making certain she’d never love or be loved again. Because of him.

Because of him! Because of him . . .

Since then he had felt that he’d never be able to hold a woman in his arms again. Rationally he could argue that he was not to blame. That’s what his conscious mind understood and accepted. But not his so much more exacting, so much more punitive subconscious. He was not allowed to forget Tania. . . .

Erik looked steadily at the young girl standing before him. Anneliese. Somehow he felt calmer. He was suddenly aware of her despondency.

“Don’t worry, Anneliese,” he said. His voice had lost its tenseness. He smiled at her. “There’s got to be someone who can put you up. We’ll see.”

“I am not from here,” she said quietly. “They do not want me.

I have nowhere to go.” She looked up at him with her huge, tear-bright eyes. “Unless—” She stopped.

Erik made up his mind.

“You can’t stay out here,” he said resolutely. He started toward the door. “I hope you don’t mind spending the night in jail.”

Anneliese gave him a little smile.

“It is where you stay, yes? I do not mind. . . .”

A makeshift blackout curtain had been hung over the window in the Interrogation Room. A cheery fire in the potbellied stove cast a warm, flickering glow across the wooden floorboards.

“You can put your things here,” Erik said. He did not turn on the light. “We’ll find a place for you to sleep.” He looked at her. “Perhaps one of the cells . . .”

Anneliese held on to her battered suitcase. She returned Erik’s look.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “But I do not think I should like to sleep in—in a cell.”

Erik felt confused, unsure of himself. He felt intensely attracted to the girl. He wanted her. The realization astounded him. His nightmare memories seemed to have faded. They were still there, but he could look at them, face them without being obsessed. He wanted to take the girl in his arms, crush her to him, lose himself in her warmth, her softness, her woman scent. He wanted to love, and forget everything else. But could he forget? Could he? . . .

He took a step closer to her. Her face shone with promise, as the soft, shimmering light from the fire played light and shadow across her expectant features. She looked infinitely lovely and desirable. Erik felt a heaviness pressing in his chest.

“Anneliese,” he said hoarsely. “There’s no place else for you to sleep, unless . . .”

Suddenly the door flew open and Don came barging in. He flipped on the single glaring light bulb and took in the situation at a quick glance.

“It’s about time,” he growled. “What the hell kept you?”

Erik stepped away from the girl.

“I ran into a little trouble.”

“So I see.” Don glanced at Anneliese.

“Took time to straighten out.”

“She part of it?”

“No.” Erik felt vaguely resentful. “She’s got no place to go. She’ll sleep here tonight.”

Don brightened.

“And I’ve got just the place for her,” he announced cheerfully. “Your bunk!”

Erik glanced quickly at Anneliese. She was looking at the floor. He turned to Don angrily. Don held up a hand in mock defense.

“You won’t be needing it, my friend. Not tonight.” He slapped the bunch of papers he held in his hand. “We’ve got a little trouble right here.”

“So what’s new?”

“Joe!”

“Joe?”

“Yeah. I’ve got him on ice. That Kraut we had write out his life story. Josef Plewig.” He grew sober. “Erik—the guy is lying in his teeth!”

Erik was at once attentive. He took the papers from Don and frowned over them. Anneliese was watching the two men. Her face was grave. She didn’t move. She stood quiet, as if unwilling to call attention to herself.

Murphy appeared in the open door.

“Anything else?” he asked. “Me, I’m ready for some serious bunk fatigue.” He spotted Anneliese. His face lit up happily. “
Gu-te a-bend, Fräu-lein,
” he pronounced in laborious and atrociously accented German.

Anneliese acknowledged his greeting with a little awkward smile. Erik looked up from the papers.

“We’ll have to check this whole fairy tale with the
OB
book.”

“But good!” Don nodded agreement.

Erik turned to Anneliese.

“You can stay here tonight, Anneliese. In my room.” He felt a strange mixture of regret and relief.

“Thank you.”

Erik turned to Murphy.

“Show her where it is, will you, Jim?”

“With pleasure!” Murphy reached for the girl’s suitcase. Reluctantly she gave it to him. “Come on, honey.” They started to leave. Don stopped them.

“And, Jim.” He looked at the young sergeant with mock concern. “You
do
look as if you could use that bunk fatigue you mentioned. Better get it.” He grinned a sardonic grin. “Pleasant dreams!”

Murphy snapped to attention. He clicked his heels a couple of times in exaggerated Teutonic fashion and saluted elaborately.

“Yes,
sir!
At your orders,
sir!”

With great dignity he ushered the girl from the room.

Erik walked to the table. He picked up a heavy volume. The
Order of Battle
book.

“Come on, Don. Let’s catch us a spy!”

Werewolf Headquarters

2309 hrs

Waffen SS Lieutenant Willi Richter was out of uniform. He felt vaguely uncomfortable. His civilian jacket and open shirt disturbed him.

Ill-tempered, he pushed a crate marked
STIELHANDGRANATEN
24 closer to the wall. The positions prepared for General Krueger’s headquarters were far less roomy than had been specified. Typical army incompetence, he thought with disgust. Boxes and crates were stacked along the wooden walls, weapons and equipment lay everywhere. It was difficult to move around in the cramped quarters. And they’d had a lot of trouble with the motorcycles. He wondered if the operations units had the same problem. It was not efficient.

He entered the small radio room. A man in civilian clothes was seated before a shortwave set. He was wearing earphones and writing on a pad. Glancing at Willi, he held up a hand for silence.

Willi leaned against the wall, watching the operator. The man was listening attentively. After a while he sent a short acknowledgment. He tore off the message he’d written and gave it to Willi.

“Munich,” he said laconically.

Willi glanced at the message. Then he read it through with mounting excitement. At last! he thought.
Jetzt geht’s los!
It begins! He hurried off.

General Krueger’s personal quarters occupied the largest room of the installation. Here, too, equipment and weapons, boxes and crates were stored against the walls. The general himself was sitting at a large table spread with maps when Willi entered. He was wearing his Bavarian clothes. Willi still wasn’t quite used to seeing his commanding officer in civvies. Some of the officer’s military authority seemed to be gone. He looked rather like a nice, quite ineffectual old man, Willi thought. He had to keep reminding himself that he knew better. He handed the message to the general.

“A message, Herr General!” He had trouble keeping the excitement out of his voice. “From Hans-32, over Munich.”

Krueger took the message. He read it. It was short and to the point:

AMERICAN OFFICER COURIER LEAVING FOR U.S. ARMY

HEADQUARTERS AT SCHWARTZENFELD 29.4—06 HOURS.

MAY BE CARRYING IMPORTANT PRIME TARGET INFORMATION.

HANS-32.

Krueger scribbled a note on the message. He handed it to Willi. “Have this sent at once,” he ordered. “Unit B. They’ll take action.”

Willi came to attention.

“Herr General!”

Krueger looked up at him.

“Yes, Richter?”

“Herr General. I should wish to have the honor to lead this first action of the Werewolves!”

Krueger studied him.

“Unit B is capable of carrying out the mission, don’t you think?”

“Of course, Herr General.” Willi thought fast. He
had
to be part of this. His whole body was tense with the need for action. “May I submit the following, Herr General?” he said quickly. “The area of the action is between here and the location of Unit B. I would need two men from there. We could rendezvous near the place selected for the ambush. The risk of discovery prior to action would be dispersed, and minimized, sir.” He looked straight at Krueger. “My English is fluent, and I would be able to bring the general a firsthand report on our initial mission.”

Krueger contemplated the earnest young man standing before him. The kind of officer he’d need. The kind of officer Germany would need to be victorious. Perhaps to survive. Young. Eager. Dedicated. Perhaps this kind of zeal ought to be rewarded, he thought. He smiled to himself. So like the way I used to be.

“
Einverstanden,
Leutnant Richter,” he said. “Very well—the mission is yours.”

Willi clicked his heels. He felt a surge of excitement.

“Make your own plan of action. And report back as soon as the mission is carried out”

“
Jawohl,
Herr General!”

Once again he clicked his heels. He hurried off. He looked at the paper in his hand with awe. He felt elated. It was the first, the very first order for action given by Sonderkampfgruppe Karl—General Krueger’s Werewolf Headquarters—and he would lead the mission!

It was the beginning.

Tomorrow the enemy would learn that the Werewolves were more than a scream over the air.

Tomorrow!

Part III

29 Apr 1945

The Road to Schwartzenfeld

0637 hrs

Emmy Lou was tooling along the road to Schwartzenfeld at a steady 50. Emmy Lou was the young wife of T5 Elbert Graham from Florida City, Florida, and her name was painted boldly—although somewhat unevenly—in white letters on the olive drab front of the jeep just below the windshield. The Emmy Lou back home was a mighty pretty girl, and T5 Graham, working in the corps motor pool, took pride in keeping her namesake in top condition. He’d painted the name himself. He felt real proud of “his” jeep; he felt almost affection for it. Emmy Lou. He felt kind of good every time he got in behind the wheel. The smart-ass motor pool sergeant kidded him he’d made the jeep into a sex symbol. What a crock of shit! He just liked driving a neat and sound vehicle. The damned jalopy he’d been driving back home was so old, he pretty near had to apply for upper and lower plates for her. Sex symbol, my ass!

The road was deserted. It looked drowsy and peaceful in the early morning light. The war had come—and gone on. It was quiet. T5 Graham was making good time.

Like the eye of a hurricane back here, he thought. The storm is raging around us.

He glanced at the officer sitting next to him. A captain. What the hell was his name again? Lorrimer? Lattimer? Lattimer—that was it. An officer courier. A dispatch case was slung over his shoulder, and he cradled a Thompson submachine gun across his knees. He was staring straight ahead.

T5 Graham took a quick squint at the signpost on a side road as he barreled past. The arm pointing down the main road read:
SCHWARTZENFELD
60 Km. Good! He’d be there in time for a second breakfast.

Ahead, a small wooded area crept down a hillside on the right and straddled the road. T5 Graham didn’t slow down. He was aware that the officer next to him repositioned his submachine gun for quick action.

They entered the little forest.

Rounding the first bend, T5 Graham hit the brakes.

A crude tree-branch barrier had been thrown across the road, blocking it except for a narrow passage on the side. An MP jeep was parked nearby, and two MPs were standing at the barrier. One of them flagged Emmy Lou to a halt.

The two MPs approached the jeep, one on each side.

“Sorry to stop you, sir,” one of them addressed the officer courier.

“What is it?”

“The engineers, sir,” the man answered. “They’re clearing the stretch ahead of Teller mines. The road was lousy with the damned things.”

Impatiently the officer glanced at his watch.

“How long a delay?”

“Oh, you can go ahead now, sir. One side has been cleared. Just keep well to the left.”

“Thank you.” The captain turned to T5 Graham. “Let’s go, Corporal. You heard what he said?”

“Sure did! I’ll keep two wheels in the left ditch all the way, sir!”

Emmy Lou had gone about a quarter of a mile, carefully hugging the left road shoulder.

Suddenly the forest quiet was shattered by a tremendous explosion. Automatically T5 Graham stomped the brake pedal to the floorboards. Emmy Lou skidded to an instant halt. The two men ducked, as the shock wave slammed an almost visible fist into the jeep.

For a moment neither man moved. Then the captain straightened up. He looked around. He motioned for T5 Graham to drive on, and Emmy Lou cautiously crept toward the next bend in the road.

Beyond was a sizable clearing. Several GIs were crouched at the roadside. Near the bend a sergeant and a corporal were kneeling by a detonator. At the sound of the slowly approaching jeep the sergeant looked up. He waved for them to stop, and turned back to the clearing.

“Fire in the hole!” he shouted. “Fire in the hole!”

The GIs hugged the ground. The sergeant gave a quick twist of the detonator handle, and out in the clearing an instantaneous geyser of dirt and smoke shot into the air. A fraction of a second later the deafening sound of the explosion crashed across the men’s ears.

The sergeant came over to the jeep.

“Okay, sir, you can go ahead now,” he said. He nodded toward the clearing. “Just getting rid of a pile of Kraut mines. The road’s clear from here on.”

“Good. Thank you.”

The captain nodded to T5 Graham.

“Let’s go.”

Emmy Lou started off again, down the road to Schwartzenfeld. Sure, T5 Graham thought sourly. Let’s go! . . . We’ve lost a goddamned fifteen minutes as it is. Probably miss that second breakfast now. Dammit!

Weiden

0659 hrs

A door banged. Someone padded down the corridor. Don looked at his watch. It was later than he thought. He stretched. He was getting hungry.

He pushed his wooden chair back from the desk and stood up. His bladder all at once felt uncomfortably heavy and bloated.

He was surprised. He hadn’t been conscious of any pressing need to relieve himself as long as he was sitting down. He walked across the Interrogation Room to the window. The makeshift blackout curtain was still drawn, but newborn daylight seeped into the room around the edges.

Don threw the curtain aside. He walked to the door and turned off the strong electric bulb hanging overhead. He shook the grill in the potbellied stove. The fire was long dead. It had been one hell of a long night. . . .

He looked at the desk, strewn with papers and books. Erik was still poring over the
OB
book and Plewig’s military biography.

Don stretched again.

“It’s damned well done”—he yawned—“but the little things trip him up.”

“Here’s another one.” Erik nodded. “Look at this.”

Don walked to the desk and leaned over Erik’s shoulder.

“ ‘Served with 173rd Engineer Battalion attached to General Bünau’s 73rd Infantry Division,’ ” Erik read from Plewig’s carefully penciled biography. “ ‘Participated in the Balkan campaigns. Also South Russian front. My Commanding Officer was Major Horst von Wetterling.’ ”

He looked up at Don. “Right?”

He stabbed an accusing finger at a page in the
OB
book.

“
Here
it says: ‘73rd Infantry Division. Commander: Lt. Gen. Rudolf von Bünau (56). Home Station: Würzburg—Bavarian personnel. Composition.’ Let’s see. . . .”

His eyes skated across the printed words.

“Infantry. Artillery. Reconnaissance. Signal.
Engineer.
Okay, now . . .”

He pointed at the words:

“Commanding Officers: 1. Maj. Horst von Wetterling. Campaigns: Poland, Saar, France. Killed in France.”

He looked up at Don.

“The man was
dead
when our little SOB here claims he served under him!”

Don flipped Plewig’s biographical notes with his hand.

“Sure looks memorized to me.”

“You can say that again, old buddy.”

“Wonder what the guy
really
did, what he is.”

“I think we’re about ready to trot him out again. Okay?”

“Okay.” Don nodded. “You want to use the ‘good guy, bad guy’ routine?”

“Don’t think so.” Erik stroked his nose in thought. “It’s pretty damned obvious the guy’s a phony. He’s probably wise to that kind of fun and games. We wouldn’t accomplish anything except wasting time.”

“Okay. We’ll give it to him with both barrels!”

Don straightened up. Again he was painfully conscious of the full pressure in his bladder.

“How about a shower and some chow before we light into him?” he said.

Erik stood up. “I’m for that.”

They walked from the room. Don began to hurry. Now that relief was in sight, he could hardly wait. One good thing about always picking the biggest and best building in town to set up shop, he thought with all the gratification of a hedonist. Indoor plumbing!

“Be with you in a minute,” he called over his shoulder. “And get a ration, will you? Pierce used the last of the soap.”

0733 hrs

“Two to one he’s SS.”

“No tattoo.” Erik pointed to his upper left arm.

“So he hasn’t got the SS tattoo. Could be many reasons for that,” Don countered.

“My guess is he’s Gestapo,” Erik said. “From some little town about to be overrun by the Russians.”

“Could be,” Don agreed. “Prefers us ‘decadent democrats’ to the ‘savage Slavs,’ no doubt!”

Erik grinned. The two CIC agents were once again seated behind the big desk in the Interrogation Room. But the desktop was now clean—with the conspicuous exception of Plewig’s biography and the big
OB
book. The men looked fresh and somehow eager with anticipation, ready to “engage the enemy” in their own way. . . . Erik felt quite certain of the outcome. A good interrogation—like a good lay—could come to only one predictable end.

The door opened and Sergeant Murphy ushered Plewig into the room.

“Josef Plewig, sir,” he announced crisply.

Plewig snapped to attention.

Erik looked up from the papers in front of him.

“That’s all, Sergeant.”

Murphy saluted formally and left the room.

Erik looked at Plewig for a moment.

“Stand at ease, Plewig,” he said. His manner seemed friendly and informal. He returned his attention to the papers on the desk. Don lit a cigarette.

Plewig stood at ease. Outwardly he seemed not the least apprehensive but he did not allow himself to relax. He studied the two Americans unobtrusively. He saw his biographical notes on the desk. He felt a quick twinge of alarm. Had he made any mistakes? No. No, he hadn’t. At least nothing the Americans could possibly know. He wondered what the big book lying open en the desk had to do with it, and he correctly guessed it was some sort of summary of information. The smoke from the cigarette wafted toward him, tantalizing him. He suddenly felt completely confident. Let them enjoy their cigarettes and read in their fat book, he thought. I’m ready for them.

Erik looked up at him.

“Now then,” he said pleasantly. “That biography of yours. It seems to be quite complete.”

“
Jawohl,
Herr Hauptmann.”

“However . . .” He suddenly frowned. “However, there are a few questions we’d like to ask you. You don’t mind answering, do you?”

“Not at all, Herr Hauptmann.”

“Good. It shouldn’t take long. . . .”

The Road to Schwartzenfeld

0741 hrs

Emmy Lou was purring along.

T5 Graham enjoyed himself. It really pleasured him to let Emmy Lou run wide open down the empty country road. He was quite literally seduced by the feel of speed, the roar of the air whistling around the windshield of the open jeep.

Shouldn’t be long now, he thought. Another fifteen or twenty kilometers. Might just squeeze in that second breakfast after all. . . . He glanced at the officer next to him. As long as he don’t come up with the wait-in-the-jeep-I-won’t-be-long bit. . . .

He looked ahead. He squinted. The sun was still low and straight in front of them. A small stone bridge over a stream with trees and shrubs seemed to hurtle toward them. As they came closer they could see three men walking on the road shoulder in the same direction they were driving. Hearing the jeep approach, the three men stopped and turned. One of them waved an arm.

The captain motioned for T5 Graham to stop, and he brought Emmy Lou to a halt some twenty feet in front of the waiting men.

T5 Graham stared at them with curiosity. What the hell kind of a snafu detail is that? he thought.

The three men were a strange sight. Two of them were German Waffen SS soldiers. Sterling specimens of the Master Race. One had his hands clasped behind his neck, the other had his right hand on top of his helmet, his left arm in a bloody makeshift sling. The third man was a GI. He was covering the two Germans with a carbine. His right pants leg was ripped open and a slipshod bandage had been tied around the calf of his leg. It, too, was bloody and wet.

The captain carefully got out of the jeep. He covered the little group with his tommy gun. The GI took a couple of steps toward the jeep. He limped badly.

“Boy, am I glad to see you, sir!” he said fervently. “I thought sure I was going to end up wearing a mattress cover.”

“What’s going on, soldier?” The captain nodded toward the two Germans. “Who are these men?”

They’re a couple of SS, sir.” The GI shifted his feet, favoring his good leg. “We flushed them out of a cellar this morning. At a farm back a ways. There were three of them. Me and my buddy were told to take them to a PW camp up the road.”

“Where are the others?”

The GI looked grim.

“The lousy bastards jumped us.” He glared malevolently at the two Germans. “They got my buddy straight off—and one of the Krauts bought it, too.” He nodded toward the man with the arm sling. “That guy got a busted hand—and I got myself a knife in the leg.”

He looked toward Emmy Lou, then back at the officer, hopefully.

“Maybe the captain could give me a hand getting those jokers back?”

He grinned ingratiatingly at the officer. “Sure would be appreciated, sir.”

The officer called to T5 Graham without turning.

T5 Graham got out of Emmy Lou and walked up to the two Germans.

Shit! he thought with annoyance. There goes that second breakfast for sure.

He started to frisk the first prisoner. These fucking Krauts. If they don’t get at you one way, it’ll sure be another! He turned toward the captain.

“This one’s clean, sir.”

He stepped in front of the soldier with his arm in the sling. The man smiled at him. He made a small motion with his injured hand at his belt buckle. . . . .

Instantly four shots rang out in rapid succession.

T5 Graham screamed.

He grabbed his stomach with both hands. He was startled at the warmth of the oily fluid that oozed between his fingers. His eyes slid across the face of the German before him, as he pitched to the ground. The man was still smiling. He hit the dirt at a crazy angle. His sight grew blurred. The last thing he saw was Emmy Lou seeming to spin and spin and spin. . . .